Lost & Found
by LoveThemWinchesters
Summary: Just weeks ago, John Winchester was killed by the elusive yellow-eyed demon. Before smoking out of its meatsuit, the creature said some things to Dean, things that went against everything the young hunter has ever known. But all demons lie, right? Dean barely remembers its words as the devastation of losing his father consumes him. A/U (See inside for full summary)
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Just weeks ago, John Winchester was killed by the elusive yellow-eyed demon. Before smoking out of its meatsuit, the creature said some things to Dean, things that went against everything the young hunter has ever known. But all demons lie, right? Dean barely remembers its words as the devastation of losing his father consumes him.

Since the elder Winchester's death, Dean has been on a downward spiral. He continues to hunt—the only solid thing he has left in his life—but mixing booze with the job isn't one of the best choices he's ever made. The morning after a hunt-gone-wrong with a werewolf, he receives an unexpected letter. What he finds at the other end of it is about to prove that not all demons lie. – Alternate Universe / Dean is 26. Sam is 22.

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**Author's Note:**Thank you soooo much to my beta and dear friend RiatheMai. She was also the one who gave me this wonderful prompt. Also a quick thanks to my southern friend Texas-Devil-Or-Angel who was brave enough to want to visit behind the scenes and offer some of her own ideas. It's been fun ladies!

**Disclaimer:** Although I would love to claim ownership, Supernatural, Sam and Dean Winchester, and the Impala (as well as the rest of the characters I borrowed) all belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.

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**~~~ CHAPTER ONE ~~~**

An empty whiskey bottle fell to the floor and rolled until it came to a rest up against the leg of the nightstand. Dean shifted in the bed from where it had fallen, slowly waking. It had been another long night of trying to bury the memories of what had happened less than three weeks ago. At the rate he was going, he was going to run out of cash and have to start hitting into his last credit card.

As consciousness gradually eased its way back, the hunter groaned. He mumbled incoherent words into the pillow under his face and pulled a bare leg back under the covers from where it had been hanging off the side of the bed. A hand came out from under the pillow where fingers were previously wrapped around the handle of his buck knife and he scratched at the side of his nose before resuming its original position.

He fell back asleep. Never mind that it was already half past noon. Dean didn't care. There was nothing out there for him, no one to yell at him to get his sorry ass out of bed.

* * *

Dean's stomach growled, protesting the lack of food. He cracked dry eyes open and blinked several times before the clock on the nightstand came into focus. 6:57 pm.

"Shit," he muttered when he saw how late it was.

He reluctantly threw the warm covers off of himself and pushed up, socked feet dropping to the floor. Scratching at his bare chest, Dean willed away the fog of sleep…or maybe it was the residual haze of alcohol. Glancing down, he toed at the empty bottle on the floor; guilt flooded into him. If his father could see him now… The man would surely kick his ass right over to the next continent.

But he couldn't now, not anymore. John Winchester was dead.

Dean stood up and swept his fingers through his short-cropped, sand-colored hair as he headed off to the bathroom. Another night; another hunt. Over the last few weeks, he'd taken down a banshee, a vamp, and a wayward spirit. He'd kept himself busy since…yeah; he didn't want to think about it.

He didn't bother closing the door to the bathroom as he reached into the shower and turned on the valve. Once the water was running, he tucked his thumbs into the elastic waist of his boxer briefs and yanked them down, kicking them off, and then pulled off his socks, tossing them into the growing pile in the corner.

_I'm gonna have to get to washing those one of these days. _But who was he kidding? Dean knew he wouldn't be getting to it any time soon.

As the steam started to fill the small bathroom, Dean looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't care too much for what he saw. His habits of the last few weeks were aging him prematurely. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened; dark shadows were beneath his eyes; the normally vibrant green of his eyes was gone as was the handsome smile that could once get just about any girl he pleased into his bed.

He frowned at himself, at what he'd become. It was becoming routine, this looking in the mirror and berating himself. Dean knew he was heading down a road from which it was hard to return. But it didn't stop him. Nothing could take away that empty feeling when he returned from a night of hunting alone, that time when he should have been rejoicing for a job well done with his dad, his family.

Not anymore.

Well, whatever. He had to get in the shower. It was a full moon tonight and he had a werewolf to hunt. Tonight, he'd take the son of a bitch out. Tomorrow, he would move on, find the next job, continue the hunt his father had started, the hunt for the demon that had killed his mother and baby brother twenty-two years ago…and his father a mere three weeks ago.

* * *

After swinging by a local fast food joint and scarfing down a less-than-fulfilling bacon cheeseburger and a box of lukewarm fries, Dean drove to the industrial section of eastern Emporia, the setting sun at his back. Go figure, this job was only about eighty miles southwest of Lawrence, a town he tried to steer clear from as much as he could.

He was only four when it had happened…

Dean had awoken to the sounds of his father yelling and shrill sirens howling. Innocent curiosity piqued, he'd slipped out from under his Batman covers and walked out of his bedroom, rubbing at his sleepy eyes with small fists. Instantly, he had found himself surrounded by the intense heat of flames licking at the hallway ceiling, their long tendrils reaching out from another small room down the hall—Sammy's room.

To this day, Dean could still remember the sweat prickling up under his pajamas, could still remember his father's face when the man had come running out of the room, eyes wild.

"Dean!" John had called his name as he came rushing out of the room at the end of the hall, tears running down soot-stained cheeks, his face twisted into something Dean had been too young to define. Big arms had engulfed the small boy as he'd been quickly scooped up and carried downstairs and out to the safety of the front lawn.

Dean might not have been able to identify the look on his father's face at the time, but he had been able to sense his grief. He'd tucked his face into the crook of the man's neck and held on tight as the firefighters had fought to put out the flames sweeping through their home.

He never saw his mother or his little brother again.

"They're with the angels now, son," his father had told him.

Dean hadn't known it at the time, but his entire life had changed that night.

* * *

Fresh tears clung to Dean's lashes as he sat in the Impala staring out into the silent and looming shadows of the buildings; he wiped them away and smoothed his hands through his hair. He pushed the memories aside. There was a job that had to be done and crying over something that couldn't be changed wasn't going to help him any. He shifted in his seat and waited.

There had only been a couple of maulings over the last week—one man and two women—but with the moon now at its fullest, the werewolf wouldn't be able to hold back. Dean was positive it would be out tonight.

His Colt 1911 lay at the ready on the leather seat beside him. The intricate etchings on the barrel shone under the moonlight. He picked up the weapon and double-checked that the clip was full—silver bullets—and then tucked it at the back of his waistband.

Dean took a deep breath; his eyes fell to the half bottle of J.D. lying against the seat. _Just a little to calm the nerves_. He picked it up and unscrewed the lid, swirling the remaining contents before bringing it to his lips to take a long pull of the burning liquid. It felt good, made him feel alive as it pooled in his stomach. Before he knew it, Dean had drunk almost all that had been left. He twisted the cap back on and tossed the near-empty bottle to the floor in the backseat; he licked his lips and wiped a hand over his mouth.

"Let's do this."

He squared his shoulders and opened the car door.

* * *

It didn't take long for Dean to find it. The werewolf was slinking around the back of one of the larger buildings, keeping itself hidden deep in the shadows. Dean remained pressed up against the brick wall of the old factory at his back, collar turned up against the chilly breeze of the late evening as he peered around the corner at the thing. His gun was in his hand, safety thumbed off and weapon cocked.

His vision was slightly unfocused—the whiskey was starting to kick in and the meal he'd had earlier wasn't doing much to help—and Dean narrowed his eyes as the werewolf came out into the open. He brought his gun up to level; his aim was far from steady and he swore to himself. He only really had one good shot. If Dean missed, the thing would be all over him in a fucking heartbeat.

The hunter worked at steadying his breathing, hoping that, in return, it would steady his hand. His fingers curved tighter around the grip and his index finger pressed slightly against the trigger.

"C'mon…," he whispered, impatient as the werewolf sniffed at the air and looked around.

And then it turned its head, dark, hungry eyes meeting Dean's.

"Shit!" Dean could have sworn he was downwind of the thing. _Had the breeze shifted?_

Suddenly, the creature was in motion…too fast for Dean's hindered reflexes. He took the shot when he could, but the damn thing went wide. Dean tried to hold steady, needing to get another shot off, but his shaking hand wasn't cooperating.

Another shot. Another miss.

And then Dean was down, sharp claws raking at his chest, deadly teeth lunging at his face and neck. Within seconds, he felt his gun knocked away. Feral eyes burned down at the hunter and Dean could feel the heat of its saliva running down his neck; its fetid breath made him want to gag.

_This is so not how this was supposed to go down._ Dean was better than this, he thought as his heart beat a pounding rhythm in his chest.

He risked a look to the right as he tried to hold the beast at bay with both hands fisted into the tufts of fur on its upper torso, trying his damndest to keep it from taking a bite out of him. Dean could handle the pain; he just didn't want to get bitten, get turned into one of these monsters.

His gun lay just out of reach. _Goddammit!_

Dean kicked his left leg up then, wrapped it around the werewolf and managed to roll them to the right. He straddled the creature and smirked. His Colt lay right there. Stunning the werewolf for an all-too-brief moment with a solid punch to its long snout, the hunter reached over and picked up his gun.

The sound of the weapon firing reverberated through the quiet stillness of the night. It echoed off the buildings, making it sound far louder than it actually was. Dean smiled when he looked down. "Sweet dreams, you bastard."

As he stood up, Dean looked down at his blood-soaked shirt and cringed. He knew the thing had torn into him good; it was going to be another long night. He hoped he had enough suturing thread in the kit.

Maybe he'd just sleep in tomorrow.

* * *

The door to the room rattled as a loud knock sounded against it.

"Winchester!" a muffled voice reached the hunter's ears.

"What the fuck?" Dean groaned, not wanting to wake up quite yet; it hadn't caught up to his brain yet that it was his name being called out.

_Who the hell was pounding on the damn door?_ The room was paid in full for another whole day, so it couldn't be the manager.

He rolled over and sat up when the banging began afresh. Every bone in his body ached after last night's skirmish, and his head wasn't all that much better. Dean wasn't in much of a rush as he slowly stood up and arched his back, stretching his sore muscles; he winced when he felt the tug of stitches on his chest. Yeah, maybe stretching wasn't such a good idea right now.

"Answer the door. I know you're in there."

_Aw, hell. _He knew that voice.

Dean picked up his pace as he pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and grabbed a semi-clean shirt out of the pile of clothes resting atop his duffel. The person outside the door didn't need to see how beat up he was from last night's hunt.

The door rattled again.

"Fucking hold on already," he muttered as he strode across the room. He reached up to undo the door chain and flicked the deadbolt. "Ellen," Dean said as he stepped back and pulled the door open; he scrubbed his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair and tried to force a smile as he squinted against the late morning (or was it afternoon?) light now pouring into the room. The hunter knew he was going to get an earful from the woman—Dean had been ignoring her calls ever since _that_ night; he didn't want to talk about it—but there was no way he could keep her out now that she was standing on his doorstep.

"Don't 'Ellen' me," she snapped as she pushed by him and walked into the room, brown eyes moving over the empty beer bottles on the table as well as on the floor, the nightstand, you name it. Dean cringed a little when he saw her gaze fall on the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter and maybe another one peeking out from under the bed. He closed the door and kept silent. Might as well grin and bear it.

When Ellen turned back to him, her eyes were hard. "I should whoop your ass, you know that? Your daddy would have your hide, Dean." A muscle ticked in her jaw as she stared up at him. The half a foot's difference between them certainly didn't intimidate her.

Dean went to open his mouth, but she cut him off.

"I know it's been rough for you," she picked up a half-empty bottle of El Sol from the table and looked from it to the young hunter, "but you know he wouldn't want you going down like this. It's a dangerous path, Dean."

Ellen was one of the few people who could get away with talking to Dean like this without getting a black eye. She was a tough woman, and pretty damn near Dean's surrogate mother. He knew she loved him like a son, and he loved her back in that weird mother/son kind of way.

Dean was startled when she set the bottle down and then cupped the side of his face in her hand; her eyes softened. "If it means anything, _I _don't want you doin' this either. What we do, hunting, Dean, you have to be straight up and sober. None of this…" She took her hand away and gestured to the table.

Dean turned away from Ellen and walked towards the center of the room. He really didn't want to hear this right now. He was coping. "I'm fine. I just need some time. Listen, if you came here to-"

"No, that's not why I'm here, so don't go givin' me any of that ol' Winchester attitude of yours; although I'm not happy you've been ignoring my calls. I just wanted to make sure you were still walkin' the earth. We haven't seen you since before…well, you know. – I'm sorry, Dean. He was a good man."

And there it was. The pity. Dean didn't need pity. He nodded, but said nothing.

Ellen's lips pressed into a thin line. She knew Dean too well to expect him to respond. "Anyway, I had to pull in a few favors to find you since you wouldn't pick up. This," she said as she reached into her jacket pocket then and pulled out an envelope, "showed up in my mail. I'm guessin' it means you or your dad; came in a couple of weeks ago. It's part of the reason I've been trying to get a hold of you." Ellen crossed the room and held the envelope out to Dean.

"Who's it from?" Dean asked curiously as he took it from her, glancing down at the envelope, then back to Ellen.

"The hell if I know." She shrugged. "The postmark says Milbridge, Maine. You know anyone up there?"

"Maine? No. Hell, I can't remember the last time we had a hunt up that way. I think even the damn ghosts would freeze their balls off that far north."

That got a flicker of a smile from Ellen.

Dean looked down at the envelope again. It was addressed to 'Winchester, c/o Roadhouse' with the bar's Nebraska address listed below. There was no return address.

"Well, are you gonna stare at it all day, or let me know what I drove all this way for?" She stood there waiting.

"Uh, yeah. – So how's Jo?" Dean asked conversationally as he got a thumb under the flap and ripped it open. He had to admit, he missed the girl some, even if she was like a pain in the ass little sister.

"She's good. She wants to get her feet wet huntin', but I've told her not while she's livin' under my roof. That girl's smart. College is where she ought to be. Not out here chasing down all this crazy shit."

"I can't agree with you more," was all Dean said as he slid the paperwork out from the envelope and unfolded it. He skimmed the few pages silently for a few moments. The first was a handwritten letter and the last two were photocopies of legal documents. "Shit."

"What is it, Dean?"

"Samuel Campbell. He's dead."

"Who?"

"Oh, um, my mom's dad. I only met him once when I was real little. Apparently him and Dad didn't get along. You know, Dad wasn't good enough for his only daughter. And then I guess the whole thing back in '83 didn't help. I'm surprised you didn't know him. He's a hunter. Well, _was_, I suppose."

He could see Ellen bristle slightly at his comment about no one being good enough for their daughter. If there was ever a mother bear, Ellen was it. Dean felt bad for the guy that ended up with Jo.

"No, sorry, can't say that I've ever had the privilege."

"From what I've heard, he was an asshole anyway," Dean said as he continued to look over the documents. "Huh." He raised his brow in moderate surprise.

"What is it, Dean?"

"Looks like he willed everything to me."

"Let me see that." Ellen stepped up next to Dean and took the papers from him; she read them over. "Any reason you can think of that he would have done that?"

It was Dean's turn to shrug. "As far as I know, I'm the only Campbell blood left. Mom had no other family, just Dad and me…and Sammy."

"But how would they have known to send this to the Roadhouse?"

"Like I said, the man was a hunter. Every hunter knows about your place. He probably figured that, between Dad and me, we'd cross paths at some point." It made sense, at least to Dean.

Ellen nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I guess you're right about that."

Dean read the letter over again. It wasn't written by an attorney; there was no legal jargon, just basic condolences and the fact that he now was in possession of some estate he'd never been to. And if he was honest, it was something he really didn't want to deal with. It was probably some rundown ramshackle of a house in the middle of the woods. He was tempted to just ignore it and let nature reclaim it.

The letter was signed by a 'B. Singer.' No one Dean knew. But the hunter frowned as he read the postscript at the bottom of the page.

_"You are owed so much more than this. It's high time you knew the truth."_

Truth. What truth? And who the hell was B. Singer?

**...tbc...**

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**Author's Note: ** Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	2. Chapter 2

**~~~ CHAPTER TWO ~~~**

Dean heard a _clink_ of beer bottles and looked up from the papers in his hand. Ellen was gathering the mass of empties from the table and was tossing them into the garbage can that she had collected from the kitchenette.

"How long you been here?" she asked as she cleared off the table.

"Three days."

The hunter saw Ellen's features tighten into a frown. She was probably adding up the quantity of bottles she was picking up and comparing it to how many days he'd been there; the ratio was a little lopsided. But the woman refrained from commenting. She'd already said her piece.

"Did you get it?" she asked as she put the trash can back where she'd gotten it.

"What?"

"What you came here for." Ellen took a seat at the table after she was done. She let out a tired sigh as she settled back in the hard plastic chair. It was more or less a five hour drive from the Roadhouse and Dean knew she was probably road weary.

"Oh. Yeah. Werewolf." Dean smiled. "Got 'im last night."

The woman eyed Dean knowingly. "How bad is it?"

"Huh?"

"You're hurt. I can see it in your eyes, the way your shoulders are hunched." At his sudden expression of denial, she continued. "I'm a mother, Dean. You can't get that shit by me."

Dean swallowed. Subconsciously, he raised his right hand up to his chest and rubbed lightly at the hidden bandages. "Nothing bad. Just the same crap you'd expect from any job."

"Uh, huh." She nodded, unconvinced; her eyes didn't leave Dean.

"Really, I'm good; just a few scratches. Nothing some needle and thread couldn't handle."

Ellen couldn't hide the slight wince. She never liked hearing about 'her boy' getting hurt out there. She'd lost her husband to the life years ago, and now her friend John Winchester only too recently. The idea of Dean running around half-cocked and far from sober out there worried her. "As long as you didn't get yourself bit. – So what are your plans now? You gonna check that out?" She gestured to the paperwork in Dean's hand.

"Don't know," he replied honestly as he folded the pages up and tucked them back into the envelope. "I don't need a house, don't want a house. It means absolutely nothing to me."

Meanwhile, whatever 'truth' B. Singer was talking about burned at Dean's curiosity; it had piqued his interest. But Maine? C'mon. It couldn't be somewhere like Malibu where all the hot chicks hung out in bikinis all day? Who wanted to go out to the middle of the woods?

"Well, you might as well have a look at it. If you don't want it, it might be worth something. You could sell it and bank the money."

"I'll give it some thought. There's a lot of miles between here and there. Maybe I'll make my way up to New England, take on a job or two on the way." Dean tossed the envelope on the bed and then went to his duffel where he opened a side pocket and pulled out an unmarked pill bottle. He snapped the cap off and shook a few out into his hand and then popped them into his mouth, dry swallowing them. They would help with his aches and his current headache. "You want some breakfast?" he offered when he was done.

"Dean, it's two o'clock in the afternoon." Ellen grinned. "But I'll take you up on an offer of a late lunch. And then I have to head back after. It's a Friday. My place is gonna be busy tonight, too much for Jo to handle all on her own."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean found a pair of socks and worked on getting his shoes on.

* * *

Lunch lasted less than an hour. Ellen got a turkey club sandwich; Dean got a plate of tacos with extra hot sauce. They talked about the Roadhouse and Jo, safe subjects. And because she knew Dean and John had been hunting one particular demon, she mentioned some things she'd heard from other hunters passing through her place. It seemed that there was an influx of demon activity in the northeast. Dean raised an eyebrow at that.

Not once did the subject of John Winchester come up.

When they finished up and the waitress dropped off the check, Ellen insisted on paying. Dean went to argue, but she just gave him that look and he put his wallet back in his pocket with a quiet, "Thank you." The last he looked, he was down to his last two twenties.

They walked outside and stopped beside Ellen's pick-up truck.

"You take it easy out there, Dean. I know what you're goin' through is hard." And she did. Losing her husband, Bill, hadn't been easy, to say the least. "I won't get into it, but can you at least try to call every now and then, let me know that you're still alive?"

Dean lost all pretense of being the stoic hunter for the moment. "Yeah. Sorry about that. I know I gotta get my shit together. Maybe a trip up to Maine won't be so bad. Hell, if the place is nice enough, maybe I'll take a break for a couple of weeks."

"It might be good for you to get away from this stuff for a while, a change of scenery."

She smiled, but Dean caught a glimmer of tears in the woman's eyes. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug. He rested his chin lightly on her head. They stood there quietly for a few minutes. Dean knew she worried about him too much, but he _had_ been pretty reckless lately.

"I promise," he said as he finally broke the embrace.

She nodded and thumbed at her eyes. Ellen cleared her throat then and said, "You better, Winchester, or I'll send Jo after you. I'm sure she'd love a chance to kick your ass."

The playful threat made Dean laugh; his grin lit up his face in a way it hadn't in too long. "Oh, god, no. Please don't do that to me."

Ellen climbed into her truck and Dean pushed the door closed behind her. The vehicle's engine started and a moment later, she rolled down the window.

The woman's eyes were soft when she looked at him. "He might be gone, but you've still got family. Don't you forget that."

"I won't. – Take it easy, Ellen."

"You, too, Dean."

And then she shifted the truck into drive and pulled away. Dean watched until she was out of sight before heading over to where the Impala was parked. He had to stop at the Laundromat on the way back to the motel. Before coming to the diner with Ellen, they had stopped off so he could get his clothes into the wash. She insisted on helping no matter how hard he tried to refuse the offer. Really, he was a grown man and she was sorting through his underwear.

An hour and a half later, Dean was back at the room. He spent a while fastidiously cleaning his gun and a few other weapons that had been neglected in the past weeks. After, he packed his bags and then, around eight o'clock, he called an order in for pizza. Once everything was done, he finally planted his ass on the bed for some downtime.

Dean was itching for a drink, but he was out. He drank the last of the booze last night when he got in. Anyway, he was going to try to kick it, cold turkey if he had to. After what he saw in Ellen's eyes, he realized he wasn't the only one he was hurting. The upcoming withdrawal wasn't going to be a joyride, but it was better than continuing down the road he was on.

Before he went to bed that night, Dean showered and put fresh gauze over his wounds. As he lay there in bed doing his best to fall asleep, he thought about his inheritance. After a while, he sighed. Maybe the fresh air would do him some good.

* * *

Twenty-seven hours. That's how long the trip was going to be. Just over eighteen hundred miles. Thank you, internet.

Dean brushed his teeth, shaved off the week's worth of strawberry-blond stubble on his jaw, combed his hair and styled it into the perfect messy spikes that always looked just right, and then he slipped into a comfortable pair of jeans and found a faded, blue t-shirt to put on. (It was really too warm out to wear more layers than that.)

He sat down on the bed next to his two duffel bags—one packed with an arsenal of weapons, the other with his clothing—and worked at getting his boots on and lacing them up. When he was done, Dean snatched up his cell phone and keys from the nightstand and tucked the phone into his pocket before shouldering his bags.

It was time to head out.

Dean keyed open the trunk and tossed the two duffels in; the weapons bag landed with a loud _clang _of metal upon metal—knives, shotguns, etc.—all knocking against each other. He tried to ignore his father's bag of personal belongings—Dean was still debating on what to do with them—but one thing he knew for sure, he wasn't getting rid of them. He probably should've given them to Ellen for safe-keeping now that he thought about it.

Before he closed the trunk lid, Dean eyed a wooden box tucked in the very back of the compartment. It was the most important thing in his possession at the moment; it was the one thing that could kill the demon that murdered his family: the Colt…Samuel Colt's own personal weapon. It was rumored to be able to kill anything. His father believed that to be true. Dean did, too. Too bad they hadn't been able to use it when it really counted.

He would get that son of a bitch someday, hopefully sooner rather than later.

With a deep sigh, the hunter closed the trunk and rounded the car. The driver's side door opened with a loud, protesting groan and then Dean slid in behind the wheel.

"Okay, Baby, ready for a little ride?" Moments later, the engine roared to life with a low rumble.

* * *

After some consideration, Dean decided to make a direct trip to Maine. He had nothing on his plate as far as any jobs. And like Ellen had said, maybe some time off would do him some good.

After a long day of driving, Dean stopped just outside of Buffalo, New York. He needed some quick cash and hit up the first craphole of a bar he laid eyes on. So far he'd been using his credit card for gas and food, but that meant he was leaving a paper trail behind him; no hunter who was worth their salt did that. Fifty bucks was all he had to his name—he'd found a spare ten dollar bill crinkled into a ball at the bottom of his jacket pocket—and he'd have to use it to ante up with. There was no losing the first game or he'd have to resort to other, less respectable, measures to get cash.

As Dean stepped through the door and into the dimly lit room, he inhaled the stale scents of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and sweat. He cast his gaze around, familiarizing himself with the layout, specifically with where the exits were. The place was busy being that it was Saturday night; a good crowd to cozy up to and get in a few games of pool with. There was already a noisy group over in the billiard area.

Dean's mouth watered for a shot or two of whiskey, and maybe a few beers, but he limited himself to just one beer, and that was just for show. It all added to the picture he wanted people to see while he set about hustling the local guys at a few games of pool. A beer in hand let him move in under the radar because people usually assumed he was just as 'three sheets to the wind' as they were. Tonight was no exception and he hit them hard.

A few hours later, Dean walked out a couple hundred dollars richer. Not a bad night if he did say so himself. He smirked. It was good to know he still had it. He hadn't hustled since before his father… Well, yeah, it had been a while.

When he'd closed the deal on the last game, Dean hadn't even thought twice about reaching for his bottle and chugging it down. The corner of his mouth twitched when he realized what he'd done. Oh, fuck it. One beer wasn't gonna kill him. A guy still had to live once in a while, didn't he?

Cash in pocket, Dean drove to the next town over—just to be on the safe side—and booked a room at a local motel. It wasn't the best place he'd ever stayed at, but he'd seen worse.

* * *

Within an hour of the sun peeking over the horizon, Dean was back on the road. His next destination was Milbridge, Maine. That meant he had another eleven or so hours ahead of him; New York took up most of the ride. Dean's plan was to get a room that night and then set out finding his grandfather's place in the morning. Things would have been easier if 'B. Singer' would've given him a phone number to contact him on. (There was nothing on the internet that he could find either.) Hell, Dean didn't even know if there was anyone at the address to meet him. The house could be empty for all he knew, and he'd be shit out of luck until he found someone who could get him in touch with the mysterious sender.

Oh, well. He'd deal with that when he got there.

Dean pushed his 'Deep Purple Greatest Hits' tape into the cassette deck and turned up the volume. He had a long ride ahead of him. A little music would make it go by quicker.

* * *

Milbridge. It was a small seaside community at the mouth of the Narraguagas River, quaint and touristy in all ways. As the Impala slowly rolled down the main street under the flood of streetlamps, Dean saw a variety of small shops lining the road outside his left window and the river out the other. The still somewhat full moon reflected off the surface of the calm waters and Dean could see quite a few fishermen's boats bobbing up and down in the wide river. If he was more of a seafood-type person, he'd show a little more interest, but lobster wasn't his thing.

It was dark out being that it was close to ten at night, even with the early start he'd made. (A man needed his coffee, and food, too.) But he'd still made good timing, had hardly hit any traffic at all on the way up.

A few miles in and he drove by a large, white church with a tall steeple; it seemed to be the center point of the town. Aside from that, there wasn't much else to look at; no big box stores, no large grocery stores, nothing. He wondered briefly how anyone could live like this, so far removed from everything. Dean wasn't a city boy by any means, but c'mon.

And what the fuck was Samuel Campbell doing way out here? The last he knew, they had still lived in Lawrence, Kansas. But then again, it wasn't like they followed up on the guy. He was a loner. Dean's grandmother, Deanna, had died before Dean was even born; the man had no ties. Maybe Samuel had decided to retire from the life and had some connection to Maine. Dean didn't know that much about his mother's side of the family; his father had never talked much about them. The Winchesters and the Campbells reminded him a little too much of the Hatfields and the McCoys…but instead of a pig, it had been Mary Campbell who the argument had been about.

Dean shrugged it off. None of that mattered much now.

When he caught sight of a flickering vacancy sign, he pulled the Impala into the parking lot, the sign's bright red letters reflecting across the car's hood. It was starting to sprinkle outside and he quickly made his way into the front office. A bell above the door announced his arrival.

A guy not much older than himself came out of a small room in the back. (An office?) His smooth, raven-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his dark eyes sparkled under the fluorescent lighting. His sharp cheek bones and tanned skin tone made Dean wonder if he might have been of Native American descent. His nametag said his name was 'David'.

"Hey, what can I get for you?" David asked with an all too bright smile; it was way too late for someone to be smiling like that.

"Just a room for the night. Queen." Dean tapped his fingers on the counter to some miscellaneous tune he had rolling around in his head.

"Sure. Let me see what we've got open." The man opened up the reservation book and ran his finger down the page. "Here we go. Room six is free. That'll be forty-three dollars for the night." David looked back up at Dean. "Will that be cash or charge?"

"Cash," Dean replied as he pulled out his wallet. Aside from money, he handed a scrap of paper with his grandfather's address on it to the man. "D'you know where this is?"

David looked at it and lifted his brow. "That's old man Campbell's place, isn't it?" he asked as he quickly counted out Dean's money and then started to write up a receipt.

"Yeah," Dean replied, sort of surprised the guy knew. "How did you know?"

"It's the only house up there. I heard he died recently. Did you know him or are you here about the estate?" David tore off the small sheet of paper and handed Dean the pink copy.

"Both. He was my grandfather and apparently the place is mine now."

The guy gave a low whistle.

"Something I should know about?" Dean raised an interested eyebrow as he tucked the receipt into his wallet and replaced it in his back pocket.

"Well, uh, I don't mean to spook you or anything—it's a beautiful place and all—but there's rumor of weird things happening up there. Every town has its haunted house, right?" he commented with a smile.

_Awesome. I have my own haunted house. _Dean bit back a smile. If the guy only knew who he was talking to… "Yeah, I suppose. So what exactly are the rumors?" He wanted to know more just in case there was some merit to them. _Had Samuel been up to something? Did he even die of natural causes? _Nothing in the letter had said anything about anything now that Dean thought about it.

"Well, the place is up on the rocks overlooking the river, you know, and you can see it from down below. Mr. Donovan was coming in from a day out on the water a handful of years back and saw some strange shadows moving about the place, more like 'black, rolling clouds of smoke', he said, if I remember correctly.

"Some of us kids would sneak up that way, daring each other, hoping we'd see something, but we never did. I don't know, it's probably all in our heads. Mr. Donovan's known to like his booze sometimes, too."

Dean tried to keep a neutral expression, but that sounded a hell of a lot like demons. He'd seen enough of them to know what they looked like. "When did Mr. Donovan claim to see the, um, smoke?"

At the question, David frowned and gave Dean a funny look.

The hunter let a smile spread on his face. "Well, I want to know what I'm in for up there. Did it happen two years ago or ten? Should I be calling the Ghostbusters?"

Dean's words caused the man to let out a laugh. "Nah, I think you're good. That was back in what, '99, I think. Nothing new that I know of has gone on up there; just an old man who stuck to himself. I guess there's nothing wrong with that. The only person that really knew him was his man, Bobby. The guy takes care of the place and just about anything else that's needed. What do they call that these days, a steward? Sort of a groundskeeper slash housekeeper slash financial person. Samuel seemed to be gone a lot so I guess someone had to tend to the place."

_Bobby…_

Dean could only guess that was 'B. Singer'. He tried to stifle a yawn behind his hand as he wondered how much Bobby knew about what Samuel really did. He also hoped the place was free of any supernatural inhabitants. If it wasn't, Dean supposed he could take care of it, then take his promised vacation. He'd have to remember to check the place out the first chance he got. If Samuel was any kind of hunter, the house should be warded.

"Well, thanks for the info. I'll let you get back to," he waved a hand towards the back room—some horror movie must have been playing because Dean could hear the fake screams loud and clear, "whatever awesome movie you're missing." He picked up the key to his room from the counter and turned to leave.

"Sure, no problem. If you need anything else, just ask. And welcome to the neighborhood."

Dean nodded and pushed the door open. _Yeah, welcome to the neighborhood alright. _The bell above the door gave a soft jingle again as he exited.

Five minutes later, Dean had his clothing duffel slung over his shoulder and was unlocking the door to his room. He salted the windows and door, took a leak, stripped out of his clothes, and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

**...tbc...**

* * *

****Author's Note: ****Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	3. Chapter 3

**~~~ CHAPTER THREE ~~~**

Dean dressed in what he considered to be his best clothes: a button down denim shirt and a faded pair of blue jeans which, by some luck, had no holes or bloodstains on them. Good clothes were a rarity in his wardrobe. (That didn't include his one good suit; he refused to wear that thing except when the job absolutely called for it.) Being a hunter meant Dean went through clothing faster than his meager and limited budget would allow. But as he walked out of the motel room the next morning and into the crisp and cool Maine air, Dean thought he looked pretty good.

He was in a good mood and wasn't sure why. He even caught himself whistling, which he stopped as soon as he realized he was doing it. Maybe because, for the first time in a while, he was doing something for himself. Well, sort of.

As he stood outside his now empty room, taking in what he could see of the town, Dean breathed in the salt-tinged air. (Even if he didn't want to admit it, it was refreshing.) A handful of seagulls circled above him in the sky, crying out as they searched for their next meal. With the town being located where the river met with the ocean, it wasn't surprising to see them. One was currently waddling around the middle of the motel parking lot. Dean was sure it was staring at him.

Where the road was empty last night, it was far from it this morning. Down the street to his left, Dean could see the church parking lot was filling up with the locals. _Sunday. Yeah, that would make sense._ These small New England towns still held to their religion more than most other places.

Dean had pretty much forsaken the idea of any gods long ago. There wasn't any god protecting these people from what was really out there. Hunters were what kept them safe from the things that went bump in the night. If they only knew… Most of them probably wouldn't leave their houses.

Water droplets glistened on the Impala from the rain that had fallen overnight and Dean trailed his fingers through the cold moisture as he rounded the car to unlock the door. He reached in to thumb the lock on the rear driver's side door and then tossed his clothing bag into the back seat before sliding in behind the wheel. The first thing on his agenda was breakfast. There had to be a diner somewhere nearby.

He found one— 'Marla's' it was called—and it was just up the street…so close, he would have walked there if he had known. Dean parked the car on the side of the building and went inside. A bell tinkled over the door. He glanced up and shook his head. _Does every damn place around here have a bell over the door?_

Dean took an open stool at the counter and glanced up at the menu on the wall: soft-shelled crab, clam cakes, lobster pie, stuffed haddock, fried _everything_, a super seafood platter, fries… He kept looking for the breakfast selection until he was interrupted by the woman behind the counter.

"Would you like a menu, hun? The board's more for lunch and dinner. That's unless you want crab cakes for breakfast," she said with a friendly smile.

The hunter pulled his eyes away from the board and looked at her; his gaze flickered to her nametag— 'Marla'—before catching her eye again with a smile in return. She was probably in her fifties, brown hair washing out to gray—it was pulled up into a loose knot behind her head with a few stray wisps framing her face—fine creases edged her mouth and eyes, but the cornflower blue of her eyes still flashed with youth.

"I'm more of a pancakes kind of guy, myself."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Marla grinned as she pulled a menu out from behind the counter and handed it to Dean. "You'll find our breakfast menu in there." After, she retrieved the pot of coffee and automatically proceeded to pour him a cup. "I'll let you in on a little secret... Al, out back, he can cook up a mean order of pancakes." She winked at him. "You're new around here, aren't you? Haven't seen you before."

Of course, if she owned the place, she probably knew most of the faces in town. "Just here for a couple of weeks. Sort of a vacation."

"Well, you've come at a good time. The weather's still nice enough and the trees are just starting to turn, but it's still too early for the parade of tourists that come traipsing through here." She turned and placed the coffee pot back on the warmer and then glanced back at him before moving off. "Just holler when you decide what you want and we'll get it cookin' for you."

"Actually," Dean slid the menu back across the counter, "I think I'll take your word on the pancakes. Why don't you just put me in for a stack and some bacon on the side."

"Syrup or sugar?" Marla took the menu back and slipped it under the counter again before writing up the order on her order pad.

"Syrup's fine, thanks."

"Orange juice? Milk?" She was covering all the bases.

"Just keep the coffee coming, Marla."

"Sure thing…" She trailed off, prompting for Dean's name.

"Dean," he decided to share with her.

"Well, Dean, welcome to Milbridge. Your food should be ready in about five minutes."

Dean nodded a 'thanks' and gave her another handsome smile as he watched her walk up to the window to the back room.

"Al, gimme a stack of cakes, extra bacon on the side!"

* * *

Stomach full of food, Dean finally stood up and tossed a twenty on the counter. It was enough to cover the food, plus some. He caught Marla's eye and waved.

"Enjoy your stay," she called out before turning her attention back to the flurry of customers invading the other end of the counter.

Dean took a breath. There was no more stalling, no excuse not to head up to his grandfather's house. He got back in the car and pulled out onto the main road, heading northeast. A few minutes later, he found the road he was looking for and turned onto it.

The road was flanked on both sides by tall trees…maples, oaks, birches, and plenty of pines. It took him away from the ocean and further up the river. Rays of morning sunlight filtered through the treetops causing long shadows to stretch out over the road. As Dean drove, he realized David was right: there were no other houses out this way.

Several miles in and the road came to an end. Dean slowed the car to a stop at what he guessed to be a driveway only because of the mailbox planted at the end of it. He looked at the number on the box: 10156. _Now how the hell did they come up with that number when this is the only house on the street? _He glanced down at the slip of paper beside him on the seat. It was definitely the right place.

Dean pulled into the gravel driveway and followed it for another few hundred feet through what felt like a tunnel of trees. When the house came into view, Dean's jaw dropped.

_That's mine? _No, it had to be a mistake. He double-checked the paper. _Fuck, really?_

The house (cottage?) was situated on a bluff overlooking the Narraguagas River—Dean could hear the water sloshing and rolling up against the rocks far below—and it was surrounded on all sides by a thick stand of pine trees. It was three stories if you counted what looked like a full attic. A three-season porch was off to one side and a two-car garage was attached to the other. Two tall chimneys peeked up over the eaves of the roof on either end of the house and it was constructed in the half-timbered fashion of the Tudor revival-style of architecture. (The only reason Dean knew that was because he had done a stint working in home construction back when he was nineteen—his dad had gone off on a solo hunt then; his only instruction to Dean at the time was for the younger Winchester to earn his keep while he was gone.)

The place was immaculate and carefully landscaped. He didn't know Samuel at all, but being that the man had been a hunter, Dean would have never figured he'd live somewhere like this. Hunters lived in motels, holes in the walls, dumps, places on the verge of 'unsafe for occupancy' notices, not…this.

Dean hadn't even realized that he'd stopped the car; he was too busy gawking at the house. As his gaze moved over it, it stopped on one of the attic windows. He could have sworn he saw a shadow pass by it. He frowned, squinting his eyes, trying to see better. But whatever it was, it was gone. Dean lifted an eyebrow then. _Maybe the place is haunted_, he mused. But realistically, it was probably only his imagination. It could have been anything.

Dean parked the car in front of the garage and got out, neck still straining to look up at the house. Before he went to knock at the door—he still couldn't tell if anyone was around—he decided to take a walk around, take in the landscape, view, scenery, whatever it was new homeowners did.

Behind the house was a large yard, cleared of trees and painstakingly tended to. A patio with a table and chairs butted up against French doors leading into the house. Near the edge of the tree line, Dean spied what looked like an overgrown garden—it was the only thing in the whole yard that wasn't properly trimmed and pruned—it was currently filled with a colorful array of autumn wildflowers which were tangled and interwoven with tall grasses.

The cliff ledge was no more than thirty feet from the base of the house and Dean walked over to it to take in the view. He wasn't a romantic by any means, but it was beautiful. The river was roughly fifty feet or so below him and it spread out like a small ocean running north and south; trees lined the opposite bank as far as the eye could see. Dean kicked a stone over the edge and listened as it clattered and bounced off the rocks below.

"You must be one of the Winchesters," a gruff voice said from behind him, startling Dean and nearly causing him to stumble.

"Shit! Son of a bitch!" He spun around, eyes wide with surprise; there wasn't enough time to get pissed. Dean somehow hadn't even heard the man come up behind him. "Who the hell are you?"

Dean eyed the older man. He was dressed in faded jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and a worn-down vest. To top it all off, the guy had a pretty rough looking baseball cap on his head. He looked friendly enough, but one could never be certain.

The man extended a hand out to Dean. "Robert Singer. But most around here just call me Bobby."

_So this is the mysterious 'B. Singer' then._ The hunter shook the man's hand; Bobby had a firm grip. "Dean Winchester."

"I wasn't sure when to be expectin' you, wasn't sure you'd ever actually get the letter I sent. But I see it worked."

"It would've helped if you'd left me a phone number," Dean muttered under his breath, but not quietly enough where Bobby didn't hear him.

The man took his ball cap off and scratched at his thinning hair before replacing it. "I knew I forgot something. Sorry 'bout that. – So, d'you wanna come inside, check the place out? We've got some stuff that needs talking about, too, before I hand over the reins."

Dean glanced up at the house again. He still couldn't believe it was his. If he sold it, he could probably get a pretty penny for it from someone with a little money to burn. Speaking of money, he wondered if there was any cash left to him. He could use that more than anything else right now.

With a nod, Dean looked back at Bobby. "Yeah, okay. Lead the way."

"Sorry 'bout your granddaddy," the man said as he fell in step beside Dean.

"Didn't know 'im," Dean replied with indifference. "I don't even know why he left me the place. He hated my dad and I'm gonna guess that extended to me."

"We'll get to that."

Dean side-eyed the man. Something was going on, but he held his tongue. He just had to be patient and let the guy say his part.

But patience wasn't exactly one of Dean's known virtues.

* * *

Dean followed Bobby in through the French doors; he eyeballed an oversized grill sitting on the patio as they walked by it.

_Nice,_ he thought.

The room they stepped into was overwhelming. It was a sitting area/living room. The walls were painted white with stained wooden beams intersecting the walls at spaced intervals; and the cathedral ceiling was all stained woodwork. The floors were made up of what looked like recycled barn wood and were covered with a large maroon and cream-colored Oriental rug. An L-shaped couch took center stage; two upholstered chairs sat opposite it. In between the furniture sat an impressive iron-framed coffee table with a wooden surface. To Dean's left was a huge fireplace; its mantle was fashioned out of large, rounded stones, quite possibly from the river below the house. A fire crackled and popped in the hearth at the moment making the room feel cozy and warm.

Dean shucked his jacket off and folded it over one of the chairs as he trailed after Bobby. His gaze roamed around the place, touching on the iron banister connected to a set of stairs leading to the upper floors; a hallway led off behind the kitchen. He could also see the hint of another room off in the other direction, but couldn't see what it was from where he was standing. It was almost too much for the young hunter who'd spent his whole life living out of shoebox-sized motels and dilapidated houses.

"Drink?" Bobby offered as he walked into the connecting kitchen.

"No, I'm good, thanks."

He eyed the kitchen while the man's back was to him. The space was filled with high-end appliances—the refrigerator and stove looked almost large enough to be commercial-grade and were stainless steel—and dark, gray granite countertops spanned the circumference of the room.

Dean noticed that the fridge was well-stocked when Bobby opened the door and grabbed a beer for himself. He couldn't figure out why that would be if Samuel had died…how long ago? The letter hadn't stated and for the life of him, Dean couldn't remember the date on it. Was Bobby living here? Had that been who he'd seen upstairs?

"You sure?" The older man turned to Dean as he twisted the cap from his bottle. "There's beer, lemonade, water. I like to keep everything handy."

"Really, I'm good. I ate before coming up. Actually, if you have a bathroom…"

"Take your pick; there's four of 'em."

_Four? _Bobby grinned when Dean's eyebrows shot up his forehead.

"Um, the closest one?"

"Just down the hall, there," the older man pointed out with the beer in his hand, still smiling.

Dean came out a few minutes later. The bathroom was in scale with the rest of what he'd seen already. He was still trying to figure out how his grandfather had been able to afford all of this.

Bobby was sitting in one of the upholstered chairs in the living room; he glanced at Dean when he heard him coming back down the hall. "Take a seat, Dean. We've got a few things to talk about."

Dean took a seat on the couch and immediately sank right into the overstuffed cushions. He tried to sit up some, but kept getting sucked back into it. Finally, he gave a defeated sigh and gave up.

"That's why I prefer the chairs," Bobby said, wry amusement in his voice. And then his tone changed to something a little more serious. "So, you're a hunter then?"

Dean didn't really know what Bobby knew, but it was already obvious he knew the answer to that question, so he just confirmed it. "Yeah, pretty much raised into it. You?" He watched the man in front of him intently for signs that he might be hiding something.

"Nah, not my cup of tea. I'm figuring your daddy got you into the life; you didn't have much of a say in things." It was more of a statement than a question.

The hunter shifted a little, not quite comfortable with this conversation. _What does any of this have to do with me inheriting my grandfather's estate?_

At Dean's hesitation, Bobby spoke up. "I'm getting to something here. Just answer the question, son."

_Oookay… _Dean could play along with the man. "Yeah, he did."

"Uh-huh. And why did he get into it?"

Dean bristled. This guy didn't need to know about his business and he stated so. "That's a bit personal, don't you think? Don't get me wrong, you seem like a nice guy and all, but it's none of your business."

Bobby took his hat off and set it on the coffee table between them. He took a sip of his beer and sat back again. His free hand came up and scratched at his stubbled chin. "I shoulda known you'd be a tough nut to crack. – Okay, let me try it this way. Your dad got into the life because your mom and baby brother supposedly died in a fire. That fire wasn't exactly the result of faulty wiring either. Am I close?"

Dean sat there, stunned. _Who is this guy?_ He managed to sit up and moved to the edge of the couch so he wasn't being overwhelmed by it. "How do you know that?" Suddenly the words in the letter he'd received came to mind…

_"You are owed so much more than this. It's high time you knew the truth."_

Fuck.

"This has something to do with that 'truth' you mentioned in your letter, doesn't it?"

Bobby nodded. "Dean-"

The sound of a door slamming upstairs cut the man off. Both men looked towards the stairs. Dean was up in a flash; so was Bobby, but both for different reasons. The older man reached out and grabbed Dean before the hunter could make a move.

"I ain't done talkin' yet."

Dean snatched his arm away; his gaze was still on the stairs. "What the hell was that?" He turned to Bobby; his green eyes burned into the man. "Are the rumors true, is this place haunted?"

Bobby chuckled at that. "You've already heard the talk, huh? No, the house ain't haunted, boy, not even close. – Sit back down, Dean."

Dean ignored the man. Instead of sitting, he leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Have it your way, then. So, you gonna let me finish?"

"Yeah, but make it quick. I'm not a very patient person."

"I'm starting to gather that. – Now, your granddaddy didn't leave you this house. He didn't have a 'Last Will and Testament'. I don't think he really cared what happened to it and its contents if something ever happened to him."

Shit. Dean knew it was too good to be true. "What about the papers?"

"I put them together. Let's just say I know a few people who know a few people. Don't worry, the Will is all legal. Fifty percent of the house and all of its contents is yours, as well as a fairly hefty bank account. As you know, there are no more Campbells."

"Of course I know that," the hunter growled out.

The guy was talking to him like he didn't know his own family. Really, Dean didn't, but Bobby didn't need to know that. And Dean couldn't concentrate on the conversation as much as he would have liked to; he wanted to know what was going on upstairs. But then the last of what Bobby said leeched into his head, causing everything else to fall by the wayside. "What do you mean fifty percent? Who's got the other half?" If that was the case, he'd argue to sell the place and move on.

The older man got up again. "Come with me." He started heading towards the stairs. As he did, he took a set of keys out of his pocket. "I've got something to show you."

Dean didn't say anything; he just followed Bobby up the stairs. When they reached the second floor, Bobby turned right and walked down the hallway to a door at the end. Dean counted six doors in all.

"Now, keep your trap shut. No matter what you see, be very quiet and don't make any sudden moves."

Again, oookay… Dean was starting to think Bobby was a little off his rocker. He watched as the older man unlocked the door and then pulled it open.

A set of stairs leading up to the attic was revealed. Bobby took the steps slow and steady; the third from the bottom groaned under his weight. As Dean got to the threshold, he stopped and his eyebrows knitted together. The walls on either side of the stairwell were covered in protective wardings and sigils. Most of them he knew, but there were a few new ones. _Huh_. But he kept his mouth shut as requested and followed the man up the stairs.

When they reached the attic, Dean saw even more symbols covering every surface of every wall—there was even a Devil's Trap under his feet at the top of the stairs—but other than that, the room could be taken for a typical bedroom: a bed covered in a blue and white checked quilt, an antique-looking bureau, several bookshelves heavily lined with paperbacks and were those…?_ Yeah. _ Ancient texts. Dean traced a finger over their spines and noted the titles of a few. They were books on demons and exorcisms; many were in Latin. Interesting. But it was a hunter's a house; he shouldn't be too surprised.

As Dean kept looking around the room, he saw a desk and chair in the far corner; papers and notebooks were scattered all over the surface of the desk. The window at that end of the room had a cascade of paper flowers hanging down over it; some were simple cutouts while others were intricately folded shapes. They spun gently from their strings in the soft breeze coming through top portion of the window which was open. Below them, a thick line of salt was spread along the sill.

Curiosity pulled him over to that side of the room. He lightly fingered a few of the flowers, amazed at the talent that it would have taken to make them. But before he could give them much thought, his attention was drawn down to the piles of papers sitting atop the desk; the corner of a laptop could be seen peeking out from beneath them. Dean picked up a few pages and thumbed through them. He saw right away that they were notes…research. Someone was researching the supernatural, specifically demons. Whoever it was, they knew their shit from the little he could see. Maybe this was where his grandfather had done his research.

When he turned to ask Bobby what this was, Dean froze. Sitting on the floor between the bed and the wall was a young man. His knees were tucked up to his chest and his arms were wrapped tightly around them. Underneath the long, shaggy mop of brown hair, Dean saw that he had high cheekbones, a strong jawline, a slightly upturned nose—he could see a mole just to the side of it—and a his teeth were clamped down into his lower lip, creating a deep indent in the plump flesh; his wide eyes were mostly hidden by his unruly bangs. And he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but right there at the moment.

Dean was pulled away from his fixation on the young man when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked back and saw Bobby gesturing to the stairs with a tilt of his head. Dean glanced back at the kid in the corner—he hadn't moved a muscle—and then he acquiesced, following the older man back down the stairs.

When they reached the second floor landing, Dean stopped and looked at Bobby as the man closed and locked the door again. "Who the hell is that?"

Bobby looked Dean directly in the eye. "That, Dean, is Sam. Sam Winchester. Your brother."

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	4. Chapter 4

**~~~ CHAPTER FOUR ~~~**

Dean was struck dumb for a minute and then he recovered in a sudden rush. "What the fuck are you talking about?" His eyes blazed with fury as he stared in disbelief at the man standing in front of him. "The whole damn house went up in flames that night; I was there. My mother _and_ my brother didn't come out. They've been dead for twenty-two goddamned years! How dare you even try to tell me that that…_kid_ upstairs is…" He broke off then, unable to say the name.

Dean had gotten dangerously close to the other man in his rage and he had to force himself to back down before he snapped further; the hunter knew all too well of what he was capable of. He spun around and rubbed at the nape of his neck, trying to staunch his rising temper before he hurt him.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Dean," Bobby replied too calmly for Dean's taste. The man's steady composure would have impressed the hunter in any other situation.

Dean whirled around on him again, emotions still soaring too high. "Next thing you're gonna tell me is my mom's alive, right? Well, fuck you," he growled. "I don't know what you want from me, but you can keep this house, keep the money, and keep whatever else is in that damn Will of yours. I'm outta here."

Dean shouldered past the older man and stormed down the stairs two at a time. He stopped to grab his jacket from the chair where he had left it earlier and then strode back through the main foyer to the front door. He had to work at the locks to get the damn thing open. Figures Samuel would have more than just one deadbolt on the door.

By then, Bobby was already halfway down the stairs, following him. "Dean-"

"Save it. I'm done with your bullshit." And then he was out the door, whipping it closed behind him, effectively cutting off anything else the man had to say.

Dean wrenched the Impala's door open and practically threw himself into the car, tossing his jacket onto the passenger seat as he slid in. He was seeing red. "Fuck!" He slammed an open palm down on the steering wheel. For a moment, he just sat there, trying to get himself to cool down.

_God, who did I piss off to deserve this?_

Yeah, he was little when it all happened, but he remembered his mother, her tender love and affection; he never had that after she died. John had been one hundred percent marine, single-minded in his quest for vengeance. Affection wasn't his thing; orders were. And Sammy… Well, he had only been a baby, but he was Dean's_ little brother;_ he didn't deserve to die like that. Dean felt tears prick at his eyes and he furiously wiped them away.

Old wounds… These ones were too deep to ever heal.

Dean let out a weary sigh. The whole concept was just... He wanted to believe Bobby, wanted to _so_ bad. But he couldn't. What the man was saying just wasn't possible. Really, explain how a six month old baby could just up and disappear from a fire and then end up halfway across the country…at his grandfather's house no less.

"Shit," Dean mumbled at the thought.

Samuel… The man hated John Winchester with a passion; the elder Winchester had always said old man Campbell was crooked and couldn't be trusted.

Had the man been that fucked up? Could he have had something to do with the fire? But Dean had read his father's journal. That psychic down in Lawrence—Missouri had been her name—had sworn she'd felt something evil at the site of the house afterwards, something that had hinted at a demonic presence. Samuel couldn't have been involved. Not unless he'd fallen in with a certain yellow-eyed demon…

It wasn't unheard of, a hunter turning to the other side. Sometimes the greed for power became too much for some. And demons preyed on that, warped it to their needs.

The hunter growled. He hoped he was wrong. But, in a way, he hoped he was right because that would mean that the dark-haired, young man upstairs really _was_ Sammy. To have his brother back…

Dean got out of the car and swung the door shut behind him. He ran shaky hands through his hair and looked up at the attic window again. This time he saw him: Sam. The younger man was standing there, staring down at Dean through the open curtains.

_Could it really be?_

Dean couldn't help but shiver. It was like staring at a ghost from his past…but older. "Sammy." The word fell from his lips before he was even aware of it. He felt dizzy as his subconscious mind slowly accepted the fact that his baby brother was still alive…and right fucking there.

Suddenly, the demon's words from three weeks ago came back to Dean. He'd convinced himself that they had been lies, but _were_ they? The hunter forced himself to look away from the window as his heart rate picked up; his blood began to boil as the details of that conversation became a heavy weight on his shoulders.

There was more to this whole situation. Dean knew nothing was ever easy…not for a Winchester.

* * *

**(( Three Weeks Ago ))**

The moment John Winchester fell to the ground, Dean screamed. "NO!" He was helpless to do anything; Dean was too far away and it happened so suddenly.

They hadn't been expecting the demon with the yellow eyes to show up in that back alley, hadn't been prepared—the Colt had been safely stowed away in the trunk of the car—all of the evidence had pointed to some low level demon, not this.

As his father's lifeless body lay there cooling in the long shadows of the alley, the demon approached Dean with a sly smile spreading from ear to ear; the prideful look on its face shone under the dim light of a security light attached high up on the side of the building at Dean's back.

Dean was ready to die at that moment—part of him almost wanted to. The last of his family had just been taken from him. There was nothing left. He stood there and braced himself for the inevitable strike.

"Dean Winchester," the demon tsked as he raised a hand and threw the hunter up against the wall behind him causing the hunter to grunt in pain; its eyes flashed a golden yellow in the gloom.

"Just do it, you son of a bitch," Dean grit out from between clenched teeth; his eyes were narrowed in stark defiance. The back of his head hurt from cracking against the brick when he'd been thrown; the flare of pain reminded him all too well that he was alive and his father wasn't.

The demon tilted its head and its expression changed to one of questioning interest. "What exactly is it that you think I'm going to do to you?"

"Aren't you gonna kill me? It's what you do."

"Now why would I do that? I like you, Dean." The creature glanced over to John's body and then back to the hunter. "Your daddy on the other hand, I didn't care much for him. He was a bit of a pain in the ass."

Dean ignored the demon's insults against his father and pressed on. By all means, the thing should have snapped his neck already; he was curious as to why that hadn't happened yet. "What do you want from me?"

"Sorry, can't tell you—even I have a boss. But here's a hint: there are bigger plans, Dean. Apocalyptic-sized." The corner of the demon's mouth tipped up into an all too disturbing smile. "Anyway," it clasped its hands behind its back and began to pace back and forth in front of Dean; the hunter could only scowl at it which made its evil leer widen, "I already have what I need, the most precious Winchester of them all. It was a fair deal if I do say so myself; I'm pretty proud of it. Everyone got something they wanted out of it."

What the hell was the demon talking about? What plans? What deal? And after what had just happened, he himself was the last standing Winchester; Dean knew that for a fact.

The hunter didn't have time to think it over before the creature chuckled and stopped in front of him, inches from his face. "Oh, I know what's goin' through that pretty little noggin of yours, Dean." It cricked its neck from side to side, still grinning. "And you couldn't be further from the truth. The world doesn't revolve around you, you know."

"Fuck off." Dean tried to move, but he was thoroughly cemented to the wall at his back.

"Such words. Didn't your daddy teach you better? – But to get back to what I was saying, the Winchesters aren't as endangered as you think, Dean-o. The line doesn't end with you."

"You're lying. Demons always lie."

The thing cackled at Dean's words. Suddenly, the meatsuit's head tilted back and a plume of black smoke poured forth from its mouth and into the night sky.

The demonic grip holding Dean to the wall faded with the demon's departure and he fell to the ground, stunned. Ignoring the now inanimate—and probably long dead—body at his feet, he immediately crawled over to his father, the last few minutes of conversation with the demon forgotten for now.

"Dad," Dean cried as he reached the man. His calloused fingers clenched into the thick leather folds of his father's jacket as he kneeled beside him. "You can't leave me, Dad. Please…"

Up until now, he'd been able to hold back his tears, but now they spilled hotly down his cheeks and splashed onto the older man's face. Dean never felt so alone.

He'd failed…failed his father…failed his family.

* * *

**(( Present Day ))**

Images of his father's body burning on a wooden pyre flashed through Dean's mind and he once more found himself blinking back unbidden tears. He wiped an open palm over his face and took a deep breath. Dean knew one day he'd be there, too—probably sooner rather than later—but he couldn't dwell on it, not right now. He had other things to deal with…

Like what was all that shit the yellow-eyed demon had been talking about, plans and deals? If Samuel had made some kind of deal, pact—whatever—with it, then why was Sam here? Why was he even still alive? Shouldn't the demon have dragged him off to some dark corner of Hell or something?

And then there were the sigils which were drawn all over the attic walls; also the books and research on demons… Sam clearly knew something. Dean wondered what it was and if Bobby had any idea what it all meant. (The man wasn't a hunter, but Dean could tell he wasn't stupid either.)

He paced the length of the car several times as he thought. And then Dean found himself getting back into it. It was still early, but he needed a drink before he dealt with everything, one last hurrah. He went to start the Impala, but cursed when he remembered it was Sunday. Dean couldn't get liquor anywhere; everything was closed today.

"Damn stupid laws," he mumbled.

He got back out of the car again. Swallowing tightly, he squared his shoulders and strode back up to the house. Dean walked through the front door, ignoring Bobby who was sitting in the living room again—almost as if he knew Dean would be back—and he headed straight to the kitchen. He started flipping through the cabinets, one after the other. Samuel had been a hunter; Dean knew the man would have a stash somewhere.

"It's in the cabinet over the fridge," Bobby's voice called out from the other room.

Dean reached up and opened the cabinet—he wasn't going to ask how the man knew what he was looking for—and he grabbed one of the several bottles of whiskey in it. (Dean wasn't so good at swearing off the habit; and in a case like this, he felt like he deserved a drink or two…or a bottle.) Liquor in hand, Dean stepped around the counter and walked out into the backyard, unscrewing the cap as he went.

_It's five o'clock somewhere_, he thought to himself as he took a long pull from the bottle. It was like liquid fire, burned as it went down his throat, but it was what Dean needed right now.

* * *

Dean didn't know how long he sat out there, legs hanging over the edge, eyes staring down at the churning waters below. He wasn't inebriated yet—it took a lot more than what he'd drunk to get him that far these days—but the sharp edge of his emotions had dulled some. More than half the bottle was gone already.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and Dean almost smiled. Bobby had been considerate enough not to sneak up on him this time.

"Might as well take a seat." Dean waved a hand out, loosely gesturing to the bare rock next to him. He didn't bother looking at the older man as he lowered himself to the ground beside him, muttering something about being too old for sitting on the edge of cliffs.

When Bobby was seated, Dean spoke up. "So that's really him…Sam?"

"Sure is."

"Huh." Dean took a draught from the whiskey. He didn't say anything for a while, and then, "How long's he been here?" Dean was still trying to figure out how the demon was involved with his—_fuck_—his brother. He still couldn't quite come to grips with the fact that Sammy was alive and kicking.

"Forever, I suppose. I came on back in, oh…late '88, I believe. He was a scrawny little runt then; you'd never know now. Your mom-"

Dean's heart nearly ground to a halt. "Wait, my mom's here? Where-?"

"I'm sorry, Dean. You're about a year too late."

The hunter's lips tightened and he nodded. That was obviously asking too much. But, god, she'd been alive all these years and his father had never known. The man had devoted his entire existence to getting vengeance on the demon that had supposedly started the blaze that had killed half his family. The fact that she'd been here only added to the building mystery.

From a fire in northeast Kansas to Smalltown, Maine… How had Samuel kept them here? Wouldn't his mother have known her oldest child and husband were still alive? What lies had Samuel told her? Dean _would_ get to the bottom of it; he didn't care what he had to do. He owed it to his family…and to Sam.

"What happened to her?" Dean asked after a while. He had to know.

"They think it was an aneurysm."

Another swig of whiskey. Dean tossed a rock over the edge. Where it actually landed, he had no idea.

"My dad, he got killed a few weeks back."

"Sorry t'hear that," Bobby said solemnly.

"Yeah, well, it was only a matter of time. Hunters, we die bloody, you know. We don't expect to live a long life. – Since we're on the subject, what exactly happened to the old bastard?"

Bobby looked over at Dean. Something in his eyes told the hunter Samuel's death wasn't exactly Kosher.

"Found him in his study a couple months ago. Heard a racket down there and I came runnin'. The door was locked so it took me a second to get it opened. Just as I got in there, I saw the tail-end of some black smoke stuffin' itself out the window and your granddaddy was on the floor, neck broken like nothin' I've ever seen before. I'll be a man and admit it, it shook me up some, whatever that thing was."

The hunter's gaze snapped over to the man at the mention of black smoke. Demons? Demons had killed his grandfather? _Shit_. The man had been a hunter, and a good one from what he'd heard. Why hadn't he warded the house? And if there was a demon involved, where was the second body if the thing had smoked out?

Then it dawned on Dean. He knew what had happened, had seen it before a time or two. One body meant the demon had possessed Samuel and killed him from inside while the man was defenseless. It wasn't a demon's usual modus operandi, but demons weren't known to be particular.

Dean had a niggling suspicion that this all had something to do with the yellow-eyed demon and whatever Samuel and it had done to get his mom and Sam here. If so, that meant Sam could still be in danger; the chances of it were pretty high. Dean might have just found out less than an hour ago that he had a brother, but his big brother instincts were already kicking into gear.

"Do you mind if I take a look around the study?" Dean asked.

Bobby lifted his brow at the request. "Son, you own this place now, well aside from a few John Hancocks, and that's just a technicality. You could paint the house pink for all I care."

Dean managed a small smile. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

He stood up and reached a hand out to the older man, helping him up from the ground. Bobby grunted and cursed his old body.

"I gotta make Sam something to eat. I'll make you a couple of sandwiches while you do what you need to. Drinkin's not too good on an empty stomach."

* * *

As they walked back up to the house, Dean asked, "So, Sam, is he, uh, all there? Seems a little messed up."

"It's a long story, but the short of it is, yes. And he's whip smart if I do say so myself. The kid learned three languages—including Latin—all within a year's time; he's got a knack for things like that, you know," Bobby said, like a father who was proud of their child. "I'll tell you everything you wanna know, but let's take care of lunch first. The kid's on a schedule and he's had a stressful enough day as it is."

"Yeah, okay." Dean opened the door and stepped into the house. The heat from the fire instantly melted away the chill that he hadn't realized had settled into him. "So, study?"

Bobby pointed a door out across the hall. "Downstairs." He reached into his pocket and Dean could hear the muffled sound of keys before the man drew them out. Bobby separated one out from the bunch and handed them over. "Take your time. The place is pretty organized, so you should be able to find your way around."

Dean took the keys with a 'thanks'. Seconds later, he was flicking on the lights to the basement and heading downstairs.

The room he entered was huge, taking up the entire basement level of the house. A large mahogany desk sat at the far end of the room; papers and binders were stacked in neat piles on one side; a computer monitor sat in one corner. Bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk as well as the wall to Dean's left; they were like Sam's bookcases upstairs, filled with ancient tomes. (For a moment, Dean wondered how many of Sam's came from down here. He was sure more than a few.)

The floor and walls reflected the upstairs décor: raw, polished wood, with bare beams and an open ceiling. Several expensive-looking Oriental rugs covered different sections of the floor. To Dean's right was a sitting area with a leather lounge chair and a small sofa. Another fireplace sat at its head.

_Jesus, this man spared no expense._

As Dean took in the room, he noted a door off in the back corner near the desk. It was made out of what looked like thick steel. It didn't take a lot of imagination to know what was probably behind it…and it wasn't the Great and Powerful Wizard either. Every hunter had their arsenal; Dean was sure Samuel was no exception.

He stepped into the room and looked up at one of the high windows, specifically the one closest to Samuel's desk. Dean pictured what had happened that night as he approached it and reached a hand up. He swept his fingertips along the sill of the window and, as sure as shit, they were coated in a thin film of yellow. Sulfur. _Gotta love demons; they never bothered to clean up after themselves._

The first thing he was going to do if he was going to be here for more than a day was to lock this whole house down, ward it against anything that could be a danger to him and his brother. Dean knew this war with the yellow-eyed demon was far from over.

Dean wiped his hand off on his jeans and took a seat in the high-backed leather office chair. He attempted to open one of the desk drawers; it was locked, as well as the rest. "Damn." He briefly flipped through the keys, but none of them were small enough to fit the locks. He wasn't worried. It was nothing his set of lock picks couldn't handle. But then again, Bobby probably knew where the key was and he wouldn't have to go picking locks. It was funny how being a hunter made him think like a petty criminal more often than not. Dean shrugged it off. That was his life.

Giving up on the drawers for the time being, Dean turned on the computer and waited for it to boot up. A login screen came up asking for a password. He ground his teeth into his bottom lip as he considered what the magic word was.

_Would the man have been so simple?_

Dean flexed his fingers and began to type different versions of his mother's name into the field: 'Mary Elizabeth', 'Mary Elizabeth Winchester', 'Mary Campbell', 'Mary Elizabeth Campbell'. The screen flashed red telling him each was incorrect. _Okay. Maybe not._ He tried again. '120554', his mom's birthdate. Incorrect.

Dean huffed out a breath and swept a hand through his hair. He frowned at the monitor, mind going through everything he knew about the man, which wasn't much. Then he leaned forward and typed, '110283', the date of the fire. Dean pressed 'Enter'.

And he was in.

Dean's first thought was: _That sick bastard._

He clicked through folder after folder. Most of it had to do with hunting, some of it expenses. Time became lost to Dean as he searched through the computer not really sure what he was looking for. And then he stumbled onto a file of pictures. Dean's breath caught in his throat. They were pictures of his mom and Sam. Dean had to blink his eyes to keep his vision from blurring as he scrolled through them. He swallowed the knot that had formed in his throat.

At first glance, the pair had seemed so happy, an adoring mother with her infant child. But as Dean looked closer, he saw that his mother's eyes didn't have that spark of life there; she looked…sad. Sammy on the other hand had always had a smile on his face, deep dimples carving into his chubby cheeks, bright hazel eyes so full of the life that wasn't in their mother's. But over time, the luster in Sam's eyes seemed to fade as well. It made Dean wonder what had happened.

"Dean!" Dean jumped when he heard his name called. "You ever comin' up outta that hole?"

Dean glanced up at the window. It was dark out. "Shit," he muttered. He looked down at his watch. He'd been down there for hours.

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I'll be right up."

Dean stared at the picture on the screen for another minute. It was a picture of his mom and what he guessed was maybe a four year old Sam plastering a big, wet kiss to her cheek. In the background was the attic.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	5. Chapter 5

**~~~ CHAPTER FIVE ~~~**

Dean reluctantly shut down the computer. When he stood up, he arched his back and stretched, scratching lightly at his still healing wounds under his shirt. Just for shits and giggles, he walked over to the gray metal door to the side of the desk and gave it a try. As expected, it was locked. He tried Bobby's keys. None of them worked. The hunter wondered where his grandfather had stashed the keys. He'd have to remember to ask Bobby if he knew where they were before coming back down here again. He trotted up the stairs and switched off the lights. Dean wasn't sure why, but he also made sure the door was locked behind him.

Once the door was closed, Dean's nose picked up the scent of cooked meat. His mouth watered at the glorious smell and he followed its trail into the kitchen. Bobby had a dark blue apron on and was carving a roast on the counter.

"What's the occasion?" Dean asked as he leaned against the center island and watched the man diligently slicing through the meat.

"It's Sunday. We always do roast on Sundays. – You gonna just stand there and stare or are you gonna help set the table? Plates and glasses are up in the cabinet, there." He pointed the cupboard out with the carving knife. "Silverware is in the drawer to the left of the sink."

Dean grinned. Domesticity. It had been a long time since he associated himself with that word. The closest he'd come to that in the last ten years or so was unpacking a fast food bag and sorting the burgers out between himself and his dad. He pulled three dishes out from the cabinet and then three glasses.

"Leave a set on the counter for your brother." At Dean's questioning look, Bobby explained. "Sam eats upstairs."

"Oh, okay." It disturbed Dean that his brother was basically quarantined to the attic. He wondered how long the kid had been up there. Dean added that to the long list of questions he had for the man. "Um, where do you want me to set up?" There was a small breakfast table at one end of the kitchen, but he was sure in a place like this there was dining room somewhere.

"Why don't you put the stuff out in the porch. There's more room than in here and the dining room's just too formal for my likin'."

Dean knew where the porch was. "Sure." He stacked the plates, glasses, and silverware into a pile and carried them down the hall and out the door into the three-season porch. He set them down on the table before feeling around on the wall to turn the lights on. The space lit up under the soft glow of the overhead fixture and Dean set up the dishes in front of two chairs.

He went back to the kitchen and helped Bobby carry the serving dishes out as well as a decanter of red wine. Dean was just sitting down when Bobby excused himself.

"Go ahead and start without me. Just gotta run a plate upstairs."

"Should I-" Dean began to offer.

"I got it tonight. You've had a long day."

Dean nodded and watched the man head back into the house. Once Bobby was out of sight, he filled his plate; he couldn't help the satisfied sigh that escaped his mouth when the roast literally melted on his tongue. The hunter couldn't remember the last time he had a real home-cooked meal.

A few minutes passed and Bobby returned. Dean was already three-quarters of the way through his first plate. Yeah, first; he was totally planning on gorging himself tonight.

"So," Bobby started off as he began to load food onto his plate, "I know you've got questions, you might as well get askin'."

Dean swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes and took a sip of wine. It wasn't really his thing, but he could probably get used to it given time. He wiped his mouth off with a napkin and cleared his throat before speaking.

There was so much he wanted to know.

"Who are you? Sam seems to trust you, at least from what I can tell. What's your place in all this?"

Bobby chuckled a little at the line of questions. "I thought you'd wanna know about that brother of yours, but me?" He lifted an eyebrow.

"I thought I'd get warmed up with the easy questions first."

"Well…" Bobby sat back in his chair and tilted his wine glass back, sipping the dark, red liquid. "I started off as Sam's teacher. Samuel wanted your brother homeschooled and found me through a friend of a friend. From there, I just sort of stayed on. Your granddaddy started traveling some and asked if I could stick around, help keep an eye on things.

"In the beginning, I helped your mom out around the house, did the landscaping, some domestics, and whatever else was needed. After a while, I was entrusted with handling your granddaddy's finances—I have a minor degree in accounting. He made sure to pay me well for it all, too. And I have to say, your ma and Sam, they became like family to me."

Dean was quiet as he absorbed what the man was saying. Sam had been homeschooled? It wasn't unheard of, especially somewhere like this. He supposed it wasn't the worst thing in the world and Bobby seemed like a good man. (Hell, it was probably better than the lackluster schooling Dean had had, barely getting to know anyone before he and his dad packed it in and moved on to the next job. He didn't even have his diploma, just a GED.) And Dean could see the man genuinely cared for his brother.

"Where'd Samuel get the money for all this?" Dean gestured back to the house as a whole. "A hunter's life isn't exactly lucrative." He speared a piece of meat on his fork, swiped it through his potatoes and brought it up to his mouth as he waited for the answer.

"Stocks, bonds, offshore accounts…? I don't know all of what he did. He dealt with some pretty shady folks over the years. He told me not to ever ask and I didn't. – Everything you see here, it's all legit though. You're not gonna have to worry about anyone coming down on you. I made sure everything was clean."

"Do you live here?"

"I have a room here, yes, but I have my own place in South Dakota. After Sam got his diploma—damn kid did that at fifteen—I started spending a little more time back home; I only came out here a couple weekends a month to deal with the finances and some other things. After your mom…well, I've been here more often than not. I thought Sam might want me around."

Bobby reached over and helped himself to another plateful of food. He offered more to Dean who nodded his head 'yes' and accepted another serving. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"What was my mom like?" Dean turned and watched Bobby. The man's face softened at her mention.

"Mary… A beautiful woman, she was. Loved Sam with everything she had. He was her world." He smiled to himself at her memory. "She never remarried, you know, was heartbroken from losing what she always referred to as her 'soul mate'…and her firstborn son: you. To everyone who saw her, she was happy and outgoing, but I could see right through that. She tried hard though, for Sam."

"She thought me and Dad were dead?" Dean had dropped his fork, appetite suddenly gone, and pushed his plate away. More and more he wanted to kill Samuel all over again. "Why would she think that?"

"I don't know, Dean. That's all I ever knew, all I was ever told. I didn't know there was a chance you were alive until after she died. And then I heard some stuff that surely wasn't meant for my old ears."

"What exactly did you hear?"

Bobby poured them each a refill of wine as he answered. "I overheard Samuel on the phone when he was makin' arrangements for your mother. He must've been talkin' to another hunter when the name John Winchester came up…in _present_ tense, mind you, not past. I knew that had been Mary's husband's name and it set off an itch that I needed to scratch. Mary was more like a daughter to me than she ever was to Samuel. It pissed me off that there was a chance her family was alive out there somewhere, and this whole time she thought they were dead because she trusted the word of that bastard. So I decided to stay quiet and do some diggin'.

"Just because I'm not a hunter doesn't mean I don't have contacts. I started researchin' the name and it always just seemed to be right on the peripherals, never right there in sight. You damn hunters are a hard lot to follow." He grinned. "During that time, I also learned that it wasn't just John Winchester I was looking for, but also his son, Dean; that you were both still alive out there.

"I caught wind of this bar called the 'Roadhouse' a few months back. Seemed like the sort of out-of-the-way place you Midwestern hunters would pass through. I was all set to take a flight out there and check it out, see if I could get any word on you and your daddy—had a plane ticket and everything—but the next thing you know, shit hit the fan around here and Samuel was dead. So, instead of me goin' out there, I had to take a chance and just send you the letter. Took a while to get everything in order before I could though. I'm glad it found its way to you."

"Yeah, Ellen—she owns the place—she drove it down to Kansas where I was working on a job. It's probably a good thing she did. I was in a bad place…" Dean didn't finish. Some things he wasn't ready to share; a muscle in his jaw twitched. He was thankful Bobby didn't make an attempt to pry.

Dean was still pretty much in a bad place. He wasn't sure what he was getting into here with Sam, and he was still grieving. Then there was the alcohol. It was in his system more often than not; he still needed to dry out. He hoped Bobby was planning on sticking around for a while because Dean was going to need the time to get himself back on track.

"Sounds like a good woman if she took the time to find you and drive all the way to Kansas."

"She is," Dean confirmed. _Shit, just wait until I call her and tell her Sam is alive._ The woman would probably catch the first plane out to Maine.

"So, I'm all warm and fuzzy that you want to know about me, but shouldn't you be askin' questions about Sam? I'd think he was the main event here."

Dean wasn't sure why he was procrastinating on that particular subject. He brought the wine glass up to his lips and drained what was left before reaching over to pour himself a refill. He drank that down, too. (He could dry out later.) Bobby watched him in silence.

His first thoughts were of the attic, the picture of a young Sam with the room in the background. Now that he thought about it, most of the pictures he had seen were indoors. (He'd have to go through them again to see whether or not they were all in the attic.)

"Has he been locked in that damn attic his whole life, with his books and…," Dean thought about what else he'd seen up there, "his paper menagerie?" _Had he been allowed to go outside?_ The idea that Sam had never been able to feel the grass between his toes did something to Dean that he couldn't explain.

"Not exactly."

Dean looked up from his wine glass and took in Bobby's expression; it was grave, haunted even.

"What do you mean 'not exactly'?" Unease twisted in his gut at the man's tone.

Bobby sighed. He cast his gaze around the porch, to the lights twinkling out in the river, then sighed as he looked back at Dean.

"He disappeared for a spell, when he was sixteen. Just poof! Gone nearly three weeks before they found him in Detroit of all places. He was beat to hell and drugged clear outta his gourd. At least that's what it seemed like."

Bobby closed his eyes, composing himself some. "The old man, he insisted Sam just ran off, didn't really seem like he gave a crap one way or the other. But I know for a fact that the kid wouldn't go leavin' your mom like that. They were too close. Plus, he was also applying for college. Stanford was what he was aimin' for. Only your mom and I knew about it; he didn't want your grandpa knowin'. And he would've gotten a full ride, too. I'm sure of it.

"Something happened the night he went missing. I've always felt like someone—or _something_—came to this house and they took Sam."

Dean could see a shudder pass through the older man as he continued to listen to the story.

"Never did find out who done it or why. Don't know all that they did to him while they had him either; don't wanna know. And don't that just make me the biggest coward out there. All I know is, he was...different after. Distant. I haven't heard a peep out of him since.

"They... hurt him, Dean." Bobby's voice broke then. "And I ain't talkin' just physically. I'm talkin' somethin' deeper that don't leave a mark. He used to be this sweet kid, all smiles and hugs and questions to try the patience of a saint; and after..." The man fell silent, his gaze fixed on the glass in his hand; he swirled the dark liquid around.

Dean wasn't sure he could hear any more of this anyway. His heart was pounding so heavily in his chest it was an audible pulse in his ears. Strangely, what hit him the hardest was not the idea that his brother had been abused. What brought tears to his eyes and a tightness to his throat was that he'd never gotten to know the happy, excitable child Bobby had described.

That Sam was gone, or buried so far beneath the surface that all that was left was the scared little boy Dean had seen on his trip upstairs earlier. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to reach him. Dean wasn't exactly Dr. Phil; he had his own set of problems.

"And yet you told me he's okay."

"He's all there, got all his nuts and bolts. He just needs someone to draw him out of that place he's gone. He's been obsessin' over them damn books ever since we got 'im back, but he won't talk, so I don't know what's goin' on in that head of his."

Dean didn't have time to comment on the possibility of demons being involved because the man continued to talk. What Bobby said next caught Dean's attention.

"There's somethin' else you should know about, too."

The older man shifted in his seat, suddenly looking a bit uncomfortable. This time it was his turn to drain his glass of wine. Without saying a word, he got up from his seat and disappeared down the hallway. Dean frowned, was about to open his mouth, but then the man was heading back toward him with a bottle of amber fluid. Whiskey. He poured both Dean and himself a generous amount of the drink. Bobby drank his down and Dean mirrored him. Whatever the man had to say, Dean wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.

But he asked anyway. "So? You kinda left me hangin'..."

"When your mom passed, she was in the attic with Sam that morning. I heard him screamin' and went runnin'; your granddaddy was hot on my heels. When we got up there, she was in his arms, already gone from the world. The poor kid fought every time we tried to get near them. He didn't like Samuel, almost seemed like he hated him—there was always somethin' between those two. The man went to wrestle Sam away from her. That wasn't such a good idea.

"Dean, your brother screamed, wouldn't let her go. Things in the room started moving around all on their own. Books went flyin', hitting Samuel. Papers were lifted up in a whirlwind of air. I don't know what happened up there, but it was bad. I finally got near enough to Sam—the poor kid was shakin' like a leaf—and I pried him away from her. He let me, just finally broke and melted into my arms."

Bobby picked up the whiskey again and offered more to Dean who took it and then poured more into his own glass. He took another sip.

"I saw the look in Samuel's eyes. Fear and cold hatred is what I saw. I'm guessin' with him bein' a hunter, he was seein' somethin' evil in Sam. Maybe he thought Sam killed your mom. I know that didn't happen, but I think he was lookin' for somethin', some excuse to lock him away.

"After that day, Sam was confined to the attic. Even my key was taken away. I was only allowed up there to feed him and provide him with water to wash with, and you know, the other stuff…"

Dean felt sick as he listened to the man speak. He clenched his jaw, body tensing slightly. "And you still keep him up there, locked away?"

Bobby sat back seeing the anger flash in Dean's emerald eyes. "That's not me, Dean. This ain't Hotel California. He has his own key. I gave it to 'im after your granddaddy passed. Sam can leave any time he wants. He just chooses not to now. He knows Samuel is dead; I told him the morning after it happened. The only thing he doesn't know is who you are. I figured I would leave that to you two to sort out."

"How bad is he?"

"Like I said, he's all there, just locked himself away behind a few doors. He goes down to the second floor bathroom when he needs to. He'll communicate with me some, but he won't talk. Whatever happened when he was sixteen, it's got him scared. I think if you can figure that out, you'll have a way in."

Bobby got up then. He picked up their dishes. "It breaks my heart to see him like this. He's a good kid. I know he's in there wantin' to get out. Maybe you can figure out the enigma that is Sam." And then he headed off to the kitchen.

Dean set his glass down on the table and rubbed his hand over his mouth. He couldn't help but think that in this house were the last two Winchesters, both of them pretty fucked up at the moment.

* * *

"Can I see him?"

Bobby looked up from where his arms were elbow deep in the suds filling the kitchen sink; there were a few pots and pans that were too big to fit in the dishwasher. The leftover food had already been put away.

"That's up to you, but it's late. He's probably sleepin' by now. Sam's an early riser."

"If that's the case, I'll come back down and you can show me where I'm shackin' up for the time being. I still gotta get my stuff from the car, too."

"No rush. I'll be up for a while. Got some papers I need to go over for the transfer of the estate. That reminds me, there's some legal stuff you'll have to sign at some point to make it all official." Bobby placed a freshly cleaned pot in the rack to dry and started working on the next. "I'm gonna have to head out Tuesday, too. Just wanted to give you a heads-up."

"You're leaving? What about Sam?"

"I'm not goin' for good, but I've got some personal business I have to tend to. Remember, son, I've been at this house for the last year, just about goin' on twenty-four/seven. And you can handle Sam. I'll leave you his schedule if it'll help, but you two are gonna need some time to connect. He's your brother, Dean. He's gonna be part of your life from now on."

The man was right. Sam _was _part of Dean's life now. Not that Dean was upset about it, but it was still quite the shocker. He'd have to make some major adjustments to the ins and outs of his days, hunting in particular. He just hoped he didn't make things worse rather than better.

"The keys are there on the counter. Just make sure when you're done, you lock that door. We don't need Sam going into a panic. It takes forever to get him outta one of those attacks."

"Uh, yeah. I'll make sure I lock up." Dean began to wonder if he should just pack it in for the night and start fresh in the morning. But he saw his hand reaching out and picking up the keys anyway.

* * *

Dean unlocked the door as quietly as he could. As he began to ascend the stairs, he made sure to skip the third step, the squeaky one. The room was dark above except for the soft glow of a small lamp on the bedside table. He stepped around the tray of empty dishes at the top of the stairs and nearly tiptoed across the room.

A Sam-sized lump was hidden beneath the quilt and Dean approached it slowly. The rhythmic rise and fall of the shoulders hidden beneath the bedding told Dean that the younger man was already sleeping.

Peeking out from the top of the thick blankets was the top of Sam's head. Dean knew he probably shouldn't, but he reached down and gently tugged the material away from his brother's face. And, god, the young man was beautiful, even in his sleep. Dark lashes fanned out over his cheekbones and his lips were slightly pursed as breath moved in and out between them. Dean hardly noticed as his hand drifted down and threaded through the chestnut-colored locks of hair. It was silky smooth and fell softly through his fingers. This was Sam, who Sam was now.

"Dad, if you could see him… He's all grown up." The words were said so quietly; they were barely there.

Sam stirred slightly under Dean's touch and he pulled his hand away quickly. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to wake up and think he was perving on him.

When Dean was sure Sam wasn't going to wake up, he brought the desk chair over and sat down. For a long while, he just sat and stared at his little brother. Shadows lengthened along the floor and Dean felt sleep calling to him. The few drinks he'd had with his meal had made him comfortably drowsy.

He sat forward and began to talk to the sleeping man. "Sammy… We're both gonna get through this. Bobby says you're a smart kid and you know what? I believe him. We'll figure this out. We're brothers, and brothers got each other's backs. I just want you to know that."

Dean reached up and rubbed both hands over his face, trying to keep sleep at bay. He just wanted a few more minutes to take in the miracle that was his brother…alive and breathing. When he looked back down at Sam, Dean was startled to find hazel eyes staring up at him.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	6. Chapter 6

**~~~ CHAPTER SIX ~~~**

Dean stilled, not sure how Sam was going to react to him being less than two feet away. This close to his brother, he could see the color of his eyes—hazel—and they weren't just your average, run-of-the-mill hazel either. The brownish-green was ringed by a tinge of blue and they were flecked with gold. They drew him in. After a moment, Dean caught himself staring and blinked.

"Hey," he said softly.

Sam didn't move; didn't reply.

Of course he didn't. Dean didn't expect miracles. He shifted back slightly, hoping not to scare Sam off. As he did, Dean noticed Sam's eyes were watching every movement intently.

"I'm not gonna hurt you. My name's Dean; I'm not sure if Bobby told you that or not." The hunter tried to paste the most passive expression he could onto his face. "Listen, I can leave if you wanna be alone." Dean went to get up, but noticed as he did, his brother moved under the blankets…just slightly, hardly enough to notice. "Is that a 'no'? I don't mind hanging out, that's if you want the company."

Dean glanced around the shadows of the room looking for something he could safely talk about. Like the rest of the house (except for the various symbols painted or drawn all over), its walls were white and the beams of the ceiling were exposed. Area rugs were thrown down over the floor giving the space a warmer feeling. And Dean didn't notice earlier, but at the far end of the room, behind the stairs, he could just make out a door; he guessed it must lead to a porch overlooking the river down below. The place didn't seem so bad at first glance, but to know that Sam had been locked up here with not much more than a bedpan and a bucket of water for the last year irritated him a heck of a lot more than just a little bit.

He knew Bobby had said Sam had locked himself away up here for what, the last six years or so? But that had been of his own volition. To know Samuel, _their damn grandfather_, had kept him up here like some kind of monster for the last year, well that was too much.

Dean had to force himself to relax, unclench his fingers which had curled into tight fists at the thought. His eyes fell on the flowers hanging over the window. They seemed unobtrusive enough to talk about.

"Did you make those, the flowers? They're really good." Dean looked back down at Sam. His brother appeared to be studying him, eyes moving over his form. He didn't reply.

Silence sat heavily around them.

_So much for conversation. _This wasn't exactly Dean's forté. He shifted and stretched a leg out. The younger man's eyes immediately fell to the limb and then darted back up to him.

"Stiff leg. It got a little banged up the other night when I was fightin' that were-" _Shit, Dean. Shut up,_ he told himself. Hunting wasn't really a great 'let's get to know each other' subject. "Sorry, just needed to stretch out a little," he amended, pulling his leg back just to be on the safe side. No reason to cause undue stress.

"So that Bobby," he tried again, "he's a mean cook. Do you happen to know if he's good at makin' pie? 'Cause, mmm…, pie. Warm apple pie? It's like Heaven, dude." As Dean talked, his stomach growled and he looked down at it with a shallow frown. How was that even possible? He had gluttoned himself on almost three plates of food before coming up here. But yeah, maybe he had some room left in there for dessert. And there was always room for pie.

When he looked up, he could have sworn he saw the hint of a smile play on Sam's face before it disappeared too suddenly. _Gotcha,_ he thought. He chuckled a little. "Yeah, my stomach has a mind of its own sometimes. – Maybe sometime, you and me, we could have some pie then."

The one-sided conversation fell off. Because Dean wasn't much of a talker himself, it was difficult for him to keep carrying on all on his own.

"Man, I wish you could…would," he corrected himself, "talk. It would make this conversation a lot easier." He rubbed at the back of his neck out of sheer awkwardness. Sam's eyes followed the movement of his arm.

When he didn't get a response, Dean stood up slowly. "Well, I know it's late. I'll let you get some sleep. I'm about ready to nod off myself, so I'll, uh, see you tomorrow then. Okay?"

Nothing.

"Alrighty then."

Dean turned and walked across the room to the stairs. He bent over and picked up the tray of dishes from Sam's dinner. Before heading down the stairs, he glanced back over to his brother. It was almost creepy with the way the kid kept staring at him. He wondered what was going through Sam's head.

"Goodnight, Sammy," he said as he headed back down the stairs.

Dean made sure he locked the door behind him.

* * *

When he got to the kitchen, Dean saw that Bobby had gotten everything cleaned up already. He looked between the tray in his hands and the dishwasher which was already running.

"It ain't gonna kill you to wash 'em," Bobby's voice sounded out from the living room, making Dean jump.

"God, would you stop doing that!"

"What?"

"Nothing," Dean growled as he went over to the sink and began to go through the process of cleaning Sam's dishes.

After he was done and everything was put in its place, Dean went into the living room and sat down (this time in the second chair instead of on the couch). He wanted nothing more than to go to bed, but he had a few more things he wanted answers to.

"He doesn't talk much, does he?"

"Not a peep outta him in six years," Bobby replied like it was normal. "I'd be surprised if you got any sort of reaction out of him at all this soon."

_Well, I got a small smile. That's a start._

"I never got to ask you earlier, but that time he disappeared, d'you think it's a coincidence that he's been obsessing over demons this whole time? And now Samuel got himself killed by one."

"Demons? You're tellin' me that black smoke was a goddamn demon?" Bobby cursed silently.

Dean nodded. He had to remember that Bobby wasn't a hunter; he wouldn't know these things. "Those symbols on the walls upstairs? They're wardings against 'em." Bobby's eyebrows rose up under the brim of his hat. "And those books he's been reading? They're about demons…just the few titles I saw while we were up there earlier."

"Demons…" Bobby whispered under his breath. "Shit. I brought those books up there for him, just never put it all together, never bothered to read any of them myself. I thought he was just lookin' for something to keep himself occupied all that time he's cooped up there." He finally put the paperback that he'd been reading down on the side table and sat forward, taking off his reading glasses. "I know there's stuff out there, you know—spirits, black dogs, and a few other things—but…nothing like demons. Are you tellin' me there's a chance Sam might be possessed or something?"

Dean was pensive for a few minutes, giving thought to what he knew, or at least what he thought he knew; sulfur-colored eyes invaded his thoughts. He didn't want to get into all of that with the man in front of him. This was family business. Until he knew Bobby better, he'd only tell him what he had to know.

"Dean?" Bobby asked when he took too long to answer.

"No. There's no way he's possessed. He wouldn't be able to get into his own room with what he's got up there. There's some pretty potent shit up on those walls. Sam apparently knows what he's doing…at least enough to keep himself protected."

"What's he…?" And then Dean saw realization dawn on the man's face. "You think the demon that killed Samuel wants to hurt Sam?"

"I don't know. Maybe," Dean lied…just a little. He was thinking about what the yellow-eyed demon had said after it had killed his father, about already having what it needed, the most precious Winchester. Clearly, it hadn't been talking about him. Dean now understood its cryptic words. "There's a lot of them out there. My dad and I have sent quite a few of 'em packing over the years."

Bobby stood up from his chair and went to stand near the back door; he stared beyond his reflection in the glass and out into the darkness of the backyard. He turned around after a while. "You never said how your dad got killed, Dean, but if I was a bettin' man, I'd guess it was a demon, too."

Bobby stared hard at Dean and Dean felt himself sinking back into the chair under the scrutiny. (Dean didn't back down often…not from anything, but there was something about the man.)

"Don't hold back on me, son. You know something; I can see it in your eyes. – I've been helpin' to raise that boy since before he knew his letters. I'm not gonna let some damn demon come waltzing in here and…and kill him or whatever else them damn things can do."

Dean was irritated at the man's words. Bobby was talking like Dean would just let something like that happen. Well, he had something to say about that. "And he's my _brother_, the last of my family. You don't think I'd do everything in my power to keep him safe?" The volume of his voice rose as he spoke, and then he said more calmly, "You're gonna have to trust that I know what I'm doing."

The older man was about to say something in response, but his eyes widened as he caught sight of something over Dean's shoulder and his mouth suddenly clamped shut. Dean turned around and, standing at the foot of the stairs, was Sam. Neither of them had heard the young man coming down the steps.

Their eyes met over the short distance from the living room to the foyer. _Oh, shit. How much did he overhear?_ The kid was supposed to be asleep, or at the very least, he wasn't supposed to be on the first floor eavesdropping on their conversation.

Dean made to get up, but Bobby stopped him with a firm grasp on his shoulder.

"No, don't. He's flighty; he's gotta come to you."

Sam's eyes were still on Dean and he didn't know what to say. "Sam?" he said quietly.

The younger man didn't reply to the hunter. Instead, he looked over at Bobby who was standing behind Dean.

Bobby moved around Dean then and approached Sam, heeding his silent call. "Y'alright, son?" He set a gentle hand on the side of Sam's arm and gave him the time he needed to respond.

Dean watched their familiar interactions, the tenderness shown by Bobby towards his brother. When Sam didn't reply right away, Bobby leaned in and whispered something to the kid; Dean couldn't hear what it was. Whatever the man had said caused Sam to finally nod.

Sam turned then, and with a final pat on the back from Bobby, he silently made his way back upstairs. A minute later, the door to the attic could be heard snicking shut in the quiet of the house.

"Is he okay?" Dean asked, still worried about what Sam might have overheard of their conversation.

"Yeah, he'll be fine. Not sure what got him comin' down here though. I can't tell you the last time he's been down these stairs. My best guess is that he's curious about you."

_Really? _"How long do you think he was there?"

"Doesn't matter. He could have been upstairs listenin'. With the acoustics in this house, he didn't have to be down here to hear everything."

"Fuck," Dean mumbled. He was getting stressed out. "You know what? I can't deal with this crap anymore tonight. Can you just show me where my bed is so I can get my stuff and crash?" It was either sleep or hit the bottle; Dean opted for the sober road tonight. He knew he'd had enough to drink today and didn't need Bobby getting on his case about it. Nothing about that would end up good.

Bobby looked like he wanted to say more. After all, his argument hadn't been appeased—Dean had given up nothing—but he held back. "Yeah. C'mon. It's just upstairs."

* * *

As it turned out, Dean's room was Samuel's old bedroom, a full master suite with an attached bathroom. When the younger man had made to refuse the room, Bobby had cut him off, swearing every blanket on the bed was brand new. The old linens had all been tossed before Dean's arrival. The room had been cleaned and emptied of all the man's personal belongings. Samuel's things were out in the garage if Dean wanted to go through them later.

Dean had backed down, not putting up too much of a fight; he didn't have it in him. He just dropped his bag to the floor, toed off his shoes, unbuckled his jeans which fell to the floor with a soft clang when the belt buckle hit, and then fell face-first onto the bed. The hunter let himself just breathe for a few minutes, then snuggled up under the down comforter. Before the count of ten, he was out cold.

* * *

Dean took a shower the next morning. It took him a while to figure out how the shower worked. (Who needed seven spray settings and two shower heads?) He dressed in his typical t-shirt and jeans after. He wasn't planning on going anywhere today so he didn't bother shaving.

When he came out of the bathroom, he decided to give the bedroom a once over. The room itself was light blue in color with a taupe carpet; the bed was king-sized and was covered in a navy blue comforter; a bureau, a couple of nightstands, a high-backed leather reading chair with ottoman, an ancient-looking wooden chest, and a small bookshelf furnished the area. Several pieces of artwork (all looking to be made of iron) were about the room, either hanging on the walls or free-standing on the floor. Dean could do with the iron, but not the garish designs.

When he opened the closet door, he found that it was a walk-in closet; it was the size of a small room. The racks and shelves were empty, though, except for a few extra blankets and pillows, all wrapped in their original packaging. He closed the door and moved over to the bureau after. Its drawers were also bare. Bobby hadn't been kidding when he'd said he'd cleaned the place out.

Dean tucked his Colt into the nightstand drawer before heading out to explore the rest of the second floor—he didn't see any reason to be packing heat while he was in the house—and then he opened the bedroom door and headed down the hallway.

There were six doors in the hallway. At one end was Dean's room; at the other was the attic door. As he walked down the hall, he found the second floor bathroom, a small library/study, and two other bedrooms. He gathered Bobby's quarters were somewhere on the first floor.

Something on the nightstand in the second bedroom caught Dean's attention and he stepped into the room to get a better look at it. It was a framed photograph which he figured had probably been taken in mid-1983 from his best guess. Dean tucked his bottom lip under his teeth as he picked it up and sat down on the bed. He stared at the picture. His mom and dad, and Sam and himself were all in it; he could see their old house in the background. That meant Sam knew he had had more family; their mother hadn't kept that from his brother. He wasn't sure how that made him feel, the fact that he had somehow been a part of Sam's life, even if he had been absent.

Dean looked up from the picture in his hand and took in the room. It was a pale rose color with hardwood floors and the bed was covered in a cream-colored spread. The furniture was white-washed and a large mirror hung over the bureau. A white wicker chair with a light green cushion sat in one corner; a matching ottoman was at its foot. This must have been his mother's bedroom. Dean had somehow forgotten that he would inevitably come across this room.

As he got up and looked around, he saw a few romance novels on the shelf, a small teddy bear, and a Mother's Day card. (When Dean looked at it, it was dated 2004, last year.) He also found a photo album amongst the items. Most of the pictures he saw as he thumbed through it were the same ones he'd found on the computer downstairs.

A piece of paper slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor; he bent over and picked it up. Dean smiled when he saw it was a picture drawn in crayon of two stick figures in a flower garden. From the long, yellow hair on one and the short, brown hair on the other, he gathered that it was supposed to be their mother and Sam. 'SAM' was signed at the bottom in big, colorful, child-like block letters. When he put the drawing back into the book, Dean saw that his hand was shaking.

_God, if we had only known…_

Dean carefully placed the book back onto the shelf and trailed his fingers over the knick-knacks and other small mementos, things his mother had collected over the years. He took a peek inside the closet and saw that her clothing was still hanging on the racks. Bobby hadn't gotten rid of them and Dean found that he was thankful for that. The same held true for the drawers of her bureau. Everything was still in its place. It was as if she could come walking through the door at any time.

A pair of diamond earrings and a gold bracelet rested on top of a knit scarf on the bureau. Beside the scarf was a basket of more paper flowers. Dean took one out and held it by its delicate stem as he studied it. He hadn't taken the time to look at the ones upstairs, to see how intricate the work really was. It must've taken forever to make each individual flower. Dean wondered who had made them: Sam or his mother?

He put the rose and cream-colored blossom back in with the others and, with a heavy sigh, Dean forced himself to leave the room. But he hesitated in the doorway, giving one last look around, surprised at the profound emotion the room elicited from him. This was as close to his mom as he would ever get.

He was startled when he felt something lightly brush against his shoulder. Dean turned around and saw Sam standing right behind him.

"Sam. Shit, dude. Make some noise next time." He smiled at the younger man, though, not wanting to run him off. "So this was her room." It was more of a statement than a question.

Sam didn't reply, but Dean could see a sadness in his brother's multi-hued eyes. Sam had to miss her. He could only imagine what his brother's life had been like since she had died

"Yeah, I get it. It's seems like you two were pretty close. If it means anything, I'm sorry."

Dean settled against the door frame, arms folded across his chest, and looked at his little brother—who, by the way, was several inches taller than himself now that they were standing next to each other. They stood there, both studying one another for a few moments before Dean changed the subject. "So how much did you hear last night?"

Sam's eyes dropped guiltily to the floor. He toyed at the hem of his ivory-colored button-down shirt, but as expected, he said nothing.

"It's okay, Sam…really. You didn't do anything wrong. I don't mind that you heard. I just… I wanted to sit down and talk to you about that, you know; not have you learn about it the way you did. It's not every day that you find out that your long lost brother is alive and kicking. I'm still digesting the news myself. I mean, shit, we're brothers."

Dean waited for some kind of reaction, but Sam just stood there, almost as if he hadn't said a word at all. Dean didn't know how to take that. Did Sam believe him? Was he disappointed? He sure as hell wasn't acting all that surprised.

Fuck, was he scared that Dean was going to lock him away again?

"Sammy?"

Sam's gaze came up from the floor at that, but it didn't make it back up to Dean's face. Instead, it settled on Dean's hand, his right hand to be more specific.

The older brother looked down to see what had attracted Sam's attention. The silver of his father's wedding band glinted from its place on his right ring finger.

Dean absentmindedly reached over and spun it, something he'd done a million times since sliding it on after he'd spread his father's ashes. "It was Dad's, our dad's. He, uh… Well, he's not around anymore either." He didn't think it was the right time to tell Sam all the gory details.

Sam's hand came up and rested on his own chest. His long fingers smoothed over something under the material of his shirt. Whatever it was, it was more than likely attached to the fine silver necklace Dean could see disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

Once more, Dean was starting to feel that same awkwardness from last night. Sam was less than an arm's length away from him, but he felt like they were miles away from each other.

"So, um…yeah. Listen, I'm not going anywhere any time soon. If you want, I can come up later and we can talk…or I can anyway. I'll tell you a little about our dad. He was a bit of a pain in the ass—you know, ex-marine type and all—but he was a good guy. Ever since you and Mom, um, disappeared, we've been hunting that demon-"

He didn't finish the sentence before Sam suddenly backed away. Dean had just enough time to see the fear flash in his eyes before the kid bolted. He flinched when the attic door slammed shut, closing Sam off from the rest of the world, from Dean.

"Fuck. Me and my big damn mouth."

Dean sighed and shook his head. He certainly had a lot to learn about his little brother.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	7. Chapter 7

**~~~ CHAPTER SEVEN ~~~**

"Mornin', Dean. Coffee?" Bobby was already bustling around in the kitchen making breakfast when Dean entered the room.

"Yeah, thanks."

A minor headache was brewing behind Dean's right eye and a coffee sure as hell wouldn't hurt it. He leaned up against the island and looked on as Bobby moved fluidly through the kitchen; it was like he owned the place.

"Cream and sugar?" The man offered as he wiped his palms off on his apron and then moved over to where the coffee pot was gurgling on the counter.

"Black is fine."

Bobby brought a mug of the steaming liquid over to him and set it down on the counter. With a tilt of his head, he gestured to a pile of papers over on the table. "I was figurin' after breakfast we could take care of those signatures I need and then I gotta run 'em into town."

"Sure, yeah, no problem." Dean was rubbing at his temple. His words didn't have much life behind them and Bobby picked up on it.

"Seem a little off this morning. You not sleep well or are you just that way until the caffeine kicks in?"

Bobby moved back over to the stove to mind the eggs in the frying pan; there was also a second pan on one of the rear burners with bacon sizzling in it. Even with the mild headache, Dean felt his mouth beginning to water at the tantalizing smell of it wafting through the air.

"Nah. Actually, I ran into Sam before coming down."

That had Bobby looking over his shoulder at him. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I found Mom's room and he caught me snooping around." Dean wrapped his hands around his mug and sipped his coffee, closing his eyes as the bitter taste washed over his taste buds. Bobby made a damn fine cup-o-joe.

"He's real protective of that room. It was probably strange for him to see someone else in there." The man was spooning the eggs into a serving bowl. When the pan was empty, he turned to bring them over to the table.

"I can't blame him. It's good to see Mom's stuff still in there. Thanks for not getting rid of it."

"I'd say 'you're welcome', but that was Samuel's doing originally. It was like he was trying to preserve her memory; only, he was doin' it for himself, not for Sam. Selfish bastard," Bobby mumbled. "When he died, I didn't feel it was my place to go through her things. That's yours and Sam's property now. Not that I would've done anything with it anyway."

Dean nodded. He set his coffee mug down and edged his way around the older man to start taking plates down from the cupboard. He brought them over to the breakfast table and set them down.

"I think I might've fucked up," he confessed. Dean stared down at the folded newspaper sitting on the table. The headlines were as positive as ever: 'Terror Plot Alleged Against NY Subway System'. Sometimes Dean wondered which was more evil: people or the things he hunted?

"Why's that?" Bobby reached over to turn the burner off on the stove and then began to take the bacon out of the pan to put it on a paper towel-lined plate.

"I, um, sort of mentioned that me and my dad were hunting that demon. He kinda freaked out about it."

The tongs Bobby was using clattered down onto the stove when he dropped them and spun around to face Dean. "Now what in the hell'd you say a darn fool thing like that for?" His jaw tightened.

"I wasn't thinkin'."

"Clearly."

Dean stopped in the middle of the kitchen. He wanted to argue—it was in his nature after all—but he couldn't, not with Bobby for some reason. "I'm sorry. – Don't yell at me, okay? It's too early in the fuckin' morning for this shit." He rubbed at his aching temple again. _Damn headache._ "I already know I screwed up."

"Damn right you screwed up." The man shook his head in exasperation, but the words were said without bite behind them. It was like he understood that Dean was doing his best.

Dean proceeded in gathering the silverware and glasses and then stopped at the fridge to grab the carton of orange juice before returning to the table. "I think I'm gonna bring Sam's food up to him. I should try to apologize," he said as he put them down next to the plates.

Bobby finished transferring the last of the bacon out of the pan and then brought it over to the table. He set the dish down and went over to one of the drawers in the kitchen. "Let me give you these then…" Bobby pulled out a small ring of keys and then returned, holding them out to Dean. "These were Samuel's. You've got the key to the house, his study, his desk, the storage room downstairs, his truck, his lockbox at the bank in town, and his key to the attic. They're yours now. Don't lose 'em. He didn't keep any spares around."

Dean reached out and accepted them from the man. He looked through them as he waited for Bobby to put Sam's breakfast together.

When the older man was done, Dean picked up the tray and headed towards the stairs. "I'll be back in a few."

"Remember to use that head of yours before anything else you regret comes outta that mouth."

"Yeah," Dean mumbled, "I think I got it."

* * *

Dean balanced the tray of food on his left arm as he inserted the key into the lock and then opened the door. Carefully, he closed it behind himself and started up the stairs. When he got to the top, he saw Sam standing by the door to the porch; the younger man was staring quietly out the window.

"Brought you something to eat."

There was no response. Sam did nothing to acknowledge the older man.

Dean set the food down on the low coffee table in front of the loveseat which sat to the side of the room. Really, the attic was more of a small apartment without a kitchen or bathroom now that he thought about it.

"Hey, I'm sorry about earlier. I don't have much of a filter when I talk. Sometimes I just say things without thinkin'. I didn't mean to bring that up, to scare you off like that."

Nothing.

Dean let out a quiet sigh of even trying, he'd fucked this whole thing up before it even got started.

He walked over and stood next to his brother; Sam didn't flinch, didn't move to step away from Dean's nearness, but Dean could almost feel the tension emanating from the younger man. He didn't move away though. If Sam was that uncomfortable about it, Dean was sure he'd let him know somehow.

Together they looked out the glass of the door to the scene below. Down on the river, there were boats moving downstream towards the ocean. There was even one brave soul out there kayaking close to the far shore. _To each his own_, Dean thought to himself. He could see, though, why Sam would be drawn to the view; it _was_ pretty relaxing.

"Sam," he began, hoping he wasn't going to make things worse, "I don't know for sure what got you like this." _Although I do have some pretty good ideas to start with._ "But I'm gonna help you. Bobby says you're in there somewhere, the old you, and I don't care what doors I gotta knock down, what darkness I have to find my way through, but I'm gonna get you out. There's more to life than just this house. I can show you, but you gotta let me in, man."

Nothing.

_Dammit. _Dean suppressed a growl of frustration. But he meant what he said; he'd find Sam and bring him back. They had a whole future ahead of them and he wasn't going to let his brother rot inside his own head like this.

"Well, I brought you eggs and bacon, and some orange juice, too. I'll just come back later and get the dishes when you're done."

Again, nothing.

Without saying anything further, Dean turned and trudged back down the stairs. He locked the door behind him and pocketed the keys.

* * *

Dean and Bobby ate their meal and cleaned up. They didn't talk about much. Bobby spent more time reading the morning paper than anything else and Dean sat, lost in his own thoughts. He was thinking a little more clearly now that his headache seemed to have moved on. _Thank god for coffee._

Afterwards, Dean and the older man worked together on getting all of the legal documents signed off on. Everything would be official once Bobby delivered them to the Town Hall. Dean was now the proud owner of half of everything his grandfather had owned. Well, maybe proud wasn't the right word, but he _was_ the owner.

When they were done, Dean went back upstairs to gather Sam's dishes. A muscle in his jaw ticked when he saw that the food remained untouched. He just didn't know how to handle Sam. It's not like there was an 'Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Traumatized Little Brother' out there. If there was, Dean would be the first in line to get it.

When he looked around the room for Sam, he didn't see the younger man. _Wonderful._ Where the hell had he disappeared to? Dean checked out on the porch and he wasn't there. It was the only other place up there where the younger man could be. It wasn't like there was hidden room somewhere…or was there? Dean had no damn clue. Hide and seek wasn't his game—he didn't have the patience for it—not unless he was hunting something that was less than human. He did a quick walk through, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary; no hidden panels or doors. Well, he was sure Sam was okay wherever he was.

* * *

Bobby saw the tray of untouched food in Dean's hands and his brow drew together. And then he saw the look of frustration on Dean's face. "You gonna be able to survive without me while I'm gone?"

"If I can handle hunting a wendigo, I think I can manage watching my brother," Dean replied sullenly as he scraped the cold eggs and bacon into the garbage can. After, he rinsed the dishes off and put them into the dishwasher.

Without giving any thought to it, he reached up to the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulled down the unfinished bottle of whiskey from last night. _Yeah, so what that it was ten o'clock in the morning?_

Bobby just gave him a pinched look, but said nothing. But Dean knew what he was thinking.

The hunter found a glass and poured himself a finger's worth, then knocked it back before saying, "What? I'm over twenty-one." Dean poured himself another glass and swirled the liquid around.

"Uh-huh," was all Bobby said to that.

"He's not up in his room." Dean leaned back against the counter and drank the whiskey down; his lips pulled back at the sharp bite. The warmth from the liquid spread through him and he already felt better.

"That's not surprising. Did you check your mother's room?"

Dean felt stupid that he needed to be asked that. The thought hadn't even occurred to him, but it made sense. He put the lid on the bottle and placed it and the now empty glass on the counter behind him. There was no sense in putting things away when he knew he'd probably want to hit into it again later. This was his house after all; he didn't have to put everything back in its place.

"I think I should go talk to him." Dean made to leave the room, but Bobby stopped him.

"It's best if you leave him be. When he's like that, he's liable to shut down for hours. Just let him come out of it on his own."

"Fine." Bobby knew what he was talking about. If Sam needed time, he'd give him time. "So, you heading out soon?"

Dean needed some time alone, too. He wasn't a social person by any means. When it was just him and his dad, they talked, but only when they needed to. John was a stoic man, keeping things close to heart and falling back on his marine training. Dean had picked up the man's habits and was more the introvert than the extrovert; he needed to reset himself after the last twenty-four hours. Maybe he could come up with a game plan on how to approach this thing with Sam as well.

"Yeah, in about five minutes. You need anything while I'm out?" Bobby asked as he began to tug his flannel jacket on.

"No, I'm good. I think I'm gonna do some more exploring downstairs now that I don't have to go pickin' the locks."

* * *

Dean watched Bobby drive off in his old pick-up truck. (Dean had asked him earlier why he didn't drive something nicer—he had the money after all—Bobby had replied with a 'This ol' thing will outlast any of that foreign, plastic crap they got out there nowadays'. Dean really didn't have anything to say to that.) When the man was finally gone, he made a beeline to the basement door.

The first thing Dean did was sit back down at the desk and unlock it. He fished through the contents of the drawers, still not sure what he was looking for. The file drawers held research on various closed cases; a vamp in upstate New York, an imp in Jersey, and a poltergeist in West Virginia were a few of them. But other than that, all he found were miscellaneous office supplies, a few business cards, some receipts, and a revolver tucked behind a hidden panel, hence the lock.

That left the door to his left. Dean spun the chair and sat facing it; he drummed his fingers on the desk to some subconscious rhythm in his head. (If he had paid attention, he would have noticed it was the beat to Black Sabbath's 'Heaven and Hell'.) Again, he knew that the room beyond was probably where his grandfather stored his weapons of the trade. Dean couldn't help the small thrill he felt at knowing that what was behind that door was now his…and Sam's, of course. From the money the man seemed to have had, Dean was sure there would be some high quality new toys to play with.

He stood up from the chair with a grin and went through the keys until he found the right one. Dean turned the knob and pulled the door open. When he reached in and flicked the lights on, his jaw nearly unhinged. It was a panic room, and it was filled with more than he could imagine.

The room itself was rectangular in shape, maybe fifteen feet wide by twice that in depth. From where he was standing in the house, Dean knew it had to have tunneled under the driveway in front of the house. The walls were at least six inches thick from what he could see, mostly steel construction, but the innermost layer was iron. A bulky, sliding door on the wall to his right could be closed over the outer door and be barred off from the inside. Samuel hadn't been screwing around.

There was a large conference table at the center of the room; eight chairs were situated around it. On both the far and the right-hand walls were racks and shelves of guns, knives, rock salt, ammo, ropes, chains…you name it. Most of it was a hell of a lot newer than the cache of weapons in the Impala's trunk.

He pulled an assault rifle off the wall and sighted down its scope. "Awesome," he said with a smile as he placed it back on the rack. Dean walked his fingers over some of the other things resting on the workbench: a few curse boxes, some talismans, hex bags, plastic bags of dried herbs… Yeah, the man had a lot of stuff.

Up against the left wall, there was a large, wooden cabinet and Dean's curiosity got the better of him. It wasn't locked and it opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges.

"Shit." He let out a low whistle.

Blades and daggers of every sort were in it. Also, he spotted a longbow and a quiver of arrows, crossbows, and a couple different types of axes. (And shit, was that a morning star? Talk about gettin' Medieval on someone's ass.)

Dean reached in and pulled down an axe. He swung it around, testing its balance. "Very nice," he said with satisfaction before hanging it back up.

The whole collection looked more like just that, a collection. Most of these weapons weren't very 'hunter' oriented, not like the sawed-offs and automatics he'd already looked at on the other side of the room. Samuel must have had a knack for the old world stuff.

He closed the doors and moved on. One last thing sat in the room: a large safe. It came up to Dean's waist and sat against the wall just inside the door. "Well, looky, looky." Dean squatted down in front of it. He gave the dial a quick spin and listened to it as it clicked softly through its rotation.

It had been a while since Dean had had to crack a safe, but damn, if it wasn't like riding a bike. He leaned forward and pressed an ear to the cool metal so he could listen to the lock mechanism, and then he slowly started turning the dial, concentrating on the tumblers as they moved inside. All the while, he was thankful his grandfather hadn't gotten one of those high-tech, fancy, schmancy safes which needed tools to break into. Honestly, he could have waited until Bobby got back to see if he knew the combination, but Dean was impatient as usual.

_Clickclickclick…_

After a bit of trial and error, Dean picked up the pattern. Less than five minutes later, he reached down and pulled the lever up. With a loud _clank,_ the door released and swung open.

"Yahtzee!"

Dean reached in and pulled out a stack of what appeared to be ledger books from the top shelf. He flipped through them and saw that it was all numbers. _Probably the man's offshore dealings or whatever it was he did._ Dean tossed them haphazardly into a pile onto the floor. He'd let Bobby take a look at them later. Maybe the man could make heads or tails out of what was in them.

He spied a small box and pulled it out. Inside was a ring box and inside of that was a woman's ring. Dean took it out and looked at it. Inscribed on the inner surface was, 'Forever &amp; Always'. It had to have been Deanna's ring, his grandmother. He carefully slotted it back into its case and tucked it back into the safe.

On the second shelf down were two thick, white envelopes. Dean took them out and was shocked to find them both full of crisp one-hundred dollar bills. "Nice," he said with a smile as he fanned through them, taking in the scent of new money. He guesstimated that they held about ten grand apiece. Dean put them back on the shelf. And then he saw a stack of leather bound books tucked into the rear of the safe. Dean frowned as he pulled them out. They looked a lot like…

His brow lifted when he saw what they were. "Oh, shit…"

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	8. Chapter 8

**~~~ CHAPTER EIGHT ~~~**

Journals…

Dean immediately put any other plans for the morning on hold as he turned and situated himself to sit back against the weapons cabinet. He placed three of the four books on the floor beside him and began to leaf through the first. He figured he may as well get comfy considering Sam was off mending his mental wounds somewhere and Bobby wouldn't be back until probably later that afternoon.

The book's pages had yellowed slightly with age and Dean had to narrow his eyes to read his grandfather's tight script. As he turned the pages, he could see that Samuel's journals weren't that much different than his father's, stuffed from margin to margin with information on every supernatural being the man had run into over the years. (Apparently, Samuel had been a hunter for a hell of a lot longer than either Dean or John had thought he'd been.) There were spells and counterspells, rituals, drawings, detailed notes on various creatures, dates and locations of hunts, some personal notes here and there—the usual meat in any hunter's journal.

There were a few comments on demons and Dean slowed down as he came across them, checking to see if there was anything new that he didn't already know. He had no such luck on that front. Samuel didn't seem to have been as well-versed in demons as John and Dean had been. Well, really, it was an unfair comparison. John Winchester had been an expert in the subject; Dean wasn't too shabby himself seeing who his teacher was.

Time passed slowly as he read and Dean was roughly halfway through the second book when he froze.

"What the hell? No…" he whispered as he made an effort to hold his hands steady.

Dean wiped a hand over his mouth as he re-read the passage to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. They weren't.

His grandfather had written of a crossroads deal. The date: November 2, 1973…and it had all gone down in Lawrence, Kansas. The person who made the deal had been Mary Campbell, Dean's own mother. He didn't know how Samuel had done it, but the man had managed to keep himself coldly detached in his recording of the event. There wasn't a whole lot of info to go on, but what was there was shocking enough.

A, then, twenty-six year old John Winchester had been killed by a demon. (That was news to Dean. The man had never said anything about it and Dean wondered if he ever even knew. Dean shivered when the thought occurred to him that he was the same age right now as his father had been then.) The details of the actual incident and why it had happened in the first place were vague to say the least—either Mary had been light in the telling or Samuel just hadn't made note of everything—but from what Dean could piece together, the same demon had made Mary an offer afterwards and she'd accepted. John had been resurrected.

Dean couldn't help the twitch of a smirk that curled up on his lips at the irony of it all. What must have gone through Samuel's head when his own daughter had fessed up to making a deal with a demon to save the one person the old man could have very well done without in his life.

But aside from the ridiculous irony of it all, Dean's thoughts turned to _that _night, the night of the fire back in '83. It was exactly ten years to the date of the deal. It all made perfect sense…but then it didn't. Mary hadn't died that night. She'd lived. (And so had Sam.) Crossroads deals didn't end that way…ever.

As Dean continued to read his grandfather's journal, he grew even more confused. The demon who'd been involved was noted to have had _yellow_ eyes, not the typical red of a crossroads demon. It was obvious Samuel hadn't known who—or what—his daughter had been dealing with. And the only demon Dean knew with yellow eyes was—_yeah_—the one that killed his father only weeks ago. Coincidence? Dean thought not. Nothing was ever a coincidence, not in Dean's book.

The entry ended just as quickly as it had begun. Dean was damn sure that there had to be more. Samuel couldn't have just let it go. There was just no way.

He skimmed the next few pages looking for anything else about the deal. There was nothing of any real value. The man had added a few entries on demons—obviously he'd started researching them after what had happened—but he'd found nothing that could break a crossroads deal. (Although, by this point, Dean was fairly positive that it wasn't a crossroads deal, not with Yellow Eyes involved.)

Dean quickly worked his way through the pages; the notes on demons began to taper off the further he went, almost as if his grandfather had given up on finding anything more. "C'mon…," he hissed impatiently.

He tossed the book aside when he'd turned the last page and grabbed up the third. And then he found a passage; it was dated October 8, 1976. Almost three years after the fact; Samuel was still pursuing the demon—Dean could at least give him credit for not giving up.

The entry was about a stray demon that Samuel had found up near Minneapolis. The man had questioned it, but the thing had only babbled on about nothing but some war. (There were several large question marks next to that entry.) The older hunter had dispatched the creature once he'd gotten nothing more from it; he'd exorcised it from the young woman it had been possessing; she didn't make it.

Again, Dean turned the pages, eyes scanning for any words he could connect with the deal. The dates on the entries moved forward slowly and he soon reached the tail end of 1979. Dean knew, by that time, that his parents had gotten married, and shit, he'd even been born then—it was strange to think of it like that. Mary had gone on to live her life regardless of the deal she'd made.

There was no specific mention of what his mother had given up to bring John back. Crossroads deals were always bartering souls. Had Yellow Eyes been after his mother's soul as well? There was really no way of ever knowing, not unless the demon itself fessed up. Dean couldn't see that happening anytime soon.

Upon reaching the end of the book, Dean chucked it aside and picked up the last. Dates passed; words passed…until he hit the back end of 1982.

Samuel had found it. He had found _the_ demon…the one with the yellow eyes.

Dean was more inclined to think it was the other way around though: the demon had found Samuel. Even with all the man's research, Samuel had seemed less than knowledgeable about the inner workings of demons; he'd just barely understood the basics of them. Dean had probably known more about demons by the time he was fifteen than his grandfather ever had.

_He would have been better off sticking with hunting ghosts and ghouls_, Dean thought.

The passage was dated September 12, 1982. Dean's eyes skimmed over the contents of the entry. A second deal of some sort had been put out on the table, one which would replace the original from nine years prior. _They were cutting it pretty close with that one._ Dean could see the older hunter had obviously been disturbed from the way his writing etched deep grooves into the paper. And then he saw why…

Dean tensed as he read each sentence, each word. He stood up then, whole body tense and vibrating with fury. There was no way Samuel could have. _His own blood…_

The journal sailed across the room, hitting the wall with a _slapthud_ and then there was a flutter of pages as it fell to the floor.

"Goddamned son of a bitch!" the hunter shouted out to the empty room; his words echoed back into his ears off the thick—and more than likely soundproof—walls.

It didn't specifically say that his grandfather had done it—_Why would the man have any reason to put damning evidence like that in his journal?_—but Dean could form his own conclusions. And if he had to bet his life on it, he'd still swear he was right.

Dean pushed his fingers into his short hair and gripped it tight by the roots. He couldn't believe it. Maybe he'd read something wrong, missed something.

Stalking over to retrieve the book from where it lay on the floor, Dean swept it up and pulled a chair out at the table. He sat down and found the page once more. But the words were the same. He'd read them correctly.

A few in particular stood out from the rest: _'New deal'_ and _'Mary would be released from her contract'._

But what grabbed Dean and knocked the air from his lungs were the words: _'Trade a soul for a child' _and, if there was any doubt about which child was being referred to, one specific quote from the demon answered it: _'The child who is still snug and warm in his mother's womb, he is to be promised to me without question.'_

The first time Dean had read the entry through, he'd instantly run the dates in his head. Sam's birthday was May 2, 1983. His mother had been pregnant with Sam at the time.

Dean stared down at the page, black ink blurring in his fury. He could squint and re-read the lines over and over, but every time they still said the same thing.

The passage ended abruptly. Dean turned the page and there was nothing there. Paper whisked by as Dean flipped page after page after page… All of them blank.

He closed the book less than kindly and kicked the chair back as he got to his feet; it rolled across the floor until it slammed into the wall. Dean went back over to the safe and proceeded to tear through its remaining contents with fierce determination. There had to be more…another journal…something.

Files flew out after he thumbed through them; papers floated to the floor all around him. Dean reached the bare metal shelf after several minutes; there was nothing. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the cold steel of the safe and he closed his eyes. He needed to know what happened.

_What had Samuel done?_

For a brief moment, he let himself think that maybe Samuel had refused the deal, had brought both Mary and Sam here to protect them, that he had faked their deaths somehow in the fire to hide them away, to keep them safe from the demon. But Dean knew better.

The man had done it. The demon had gotten what it had been after.

* * *

Eventually, Dean got up from where he was kneeling on the cement floor. (His knees weren't so great after hunting for so many years.) He went over and sat on the edge of the table as he tried to settle his thoughts and put things in order.

There had to be some way to get Sam out of whatever stupid-ass thing Samuel had done…aside from hunting down the S.O.B. and killing it—but that would take time, time which Sam might not have. If there was some short-term way of freeing his brother, Dean would take it. The demon could be brought down later.

But something in all of this didn't make sense. How come on the night of the fire both Sam _and_ their mother disappeared? Why hadn't the demon just taken Sam? And how did Samuel end up with them here in Maine? There was something more to the whole story and it pissed Dean off royally that there was no way for him to find out.

Then there was the whole topic of Sam. Bobby had mentioned the kid had some kind of telekinetic powers. Any which way you looked at it, that wasn't natural. That meant the demon had more than likely already done something to Sam, but when? Dean thought back on what he knew about the fire in Lawrence…and it wasn't much, only what his father had told him. Missouri had said that there'd been a demonic presence at the house; she'd sniffed out its foul stench; there was no question that Yellow Eyes had been there that night.

An icy shiver went up Dean's spine and he felt his stomach pitch with nausea. The whole idea that Yellow Eyes had done something to a six month old Sam had him physically ill.

God, he had more fucking questions wheeling around in his head now than he ever had. Fleetingly, Dean thought about his brother. How much did Sam know about this? Did he know _anything_? It seemed like the kid should, what with all the research he was doing and how heavily warded the attic was. Had something happened in Detroit? Bobby hadn't had any real info about what had happened. Maybe if Dean could get Sam to trust him enough, come out of his shell a bit, his brother could provide answers to some of the questions. Hell, if he had to, Dean would find some way to get answers from the demon's own mouth.

Dean pushed up from the table and headed to the door. He stepped over the journals, ledger books, and everything else which had rained down onto the floor in his attempt at finding out more. That bottle of whiskey still sitting on the counter upstairs was calling his name, screaming it as a matter of fact.

He still couldn't believe it. The idea of family—_blood—_willingly trading family with a demon burned at Dean's insides. He didn't give a shit what the reason was.

Dean hoped Samuel was spit-roasting in Hell.

* * *

Dean flicked the lights off and was just starting to close the door behind him when he heard it: movement from the stairs and then the door to the first floor quietly latching shut.

Instinctively, the hunter tensed. He took a second to glance back over his shoulder at the closed panic room door. It wasn't like he didn't have a weapon with which to protect himself, but most of the stuff in the room was a little overkill. Then he remembered the revolver in Samuel's desk.

Quickly, Dean went over and yanked the drawer open. He reached in to remove the false panel and pulled the gun out, checking to make sure it was loaded when he had it in hand. Once he did, he moved quickly across the room and made his way up the stairs.

Dean stopped just inside the door and listened, the fingers of his left hand curled around the doorknob as the ones on his right flexed on the grip of the gun. When things on the other side appeared quiet, he opened the door cautiously, weapon leading the way, and then peeked his head out.

The house stood silent.

He stepped out of the basement and moved into the foyer. Pulling the curtain back, he looked outside; there were no other cars in the driveway aside from the Impala. He also checked to make sure the door was still locked. It was.

Dean made quick work of going through the first floor. All of the rooms were empty and the doors and windows were secure. (He found Bobby's room in his ventures; the place was more like an in-law suite than a bedroom.)

He moved up the staircase to the second floor, socked feet making no sound on the wooden treads of the stairs. Once again he found no one.

And then his eyes fell on the attic door as he stood at the far end of the hallway just outside of his room.

"Sam," he whispered with realization.

Just the idea that his brother would step foot in their grandfather's study had Dean nonplussed. He'd have thought anything hunter-related would scare Sam off. Apparently that wasn't the case.

Dean tucked the revolver safely into the back of his jeans as he moved down the hallway. He then pulled his grandfather's keys out of his front pocket.

It was time to pay his little brother a visit.

* * *

Dean pressed his ear to the attic door and listened before moving to unlock it. There was nothing but silence._ (They really need a radio or something around here, _Dean thought to himself.) Slowly, he pushed the key into the lock and turned it. When the door swung open, he took a breath and began to ascend the stairs.

As he did, he thought about the door to the study. He was damn sure he'd closed it behind him when he'd gone down; it had been locked. How did Sam even get down there?

Dean grinned. Sam certainly had some Winchester blood in him.

* * *

Dean didn't know what he was going to say when he came face-to-face with his brother; more than likely it was going to end up being another awkward, one-sided conversation. _Awesome_.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he stopped. Sam was sitting at his desk, quietly reading a book, legs pulled back under his chair, feet crossed at the ankles. He didn't look up, didn't appear to register that Dean was even there.

Dean looked around the room; it was bright in the morning light which flooded in through the windows. The paper flowers hanging above Sam cast moving shadows across the floor as they spun softly in the ever-present breeze from the eastern-facing window. As Dean took in the scene, he came to the conclusion that the attic was nicer than most of the places he and his father had stayed in over the years.

"How's the book?" he asked as he stepped into the room.

Nothing.

Dean picked up a puzzle book from the top of one of the bookcases and flipped through it. It was a collection of 'New York Times' crossword puzzles…and it was just about complete. _Smart kid_…just like Bobby had said.

He set the magazine back down as he wandered around the room familiarizing himself with his brother's things…more books, both recreational and lore-related (Dean spotted a copy of _Lord of the Rings_ and grinned), notebooks, origami paper (several colorful pieces lay on the coffee table; it looked like Sam had made an attempt to start on another flower since Dean had been up here this morning), and several flannel shirts lay draped over the back of the love seat. It looked like Sam kept himself busy.

Eventually, he stopped to study a sigil on the wall that he'd never seen before. "You sneak around often?" Dean tried to keep his tone light, nonchalant, as his eyes followed the dark lines of the symbol. He didn't want Sam to feel like he was being scolded.

Silence.

At the lack of response, Dean crossed the room and sat down on Sam's bed. The mattress was firm under him and he ran a hand over the soft material of the quilt. It looked handmade and he wondered if his mother had made it.

"You can't ignore me forever," Dean said, looking back up at Sam from the blue and white checked pattern. He saw the younger man's shoulders stiffen at his words, but he continued. "You know, you're pretty good. Bobby thinks you keep yourself locked up here all the time, but I'm gettin' the sense that you do a little more than that."

Sam closed his book and pushed it away from himself.

"Good, you know I'm here then," Dean said, relieved that he was getting some sort of a reaction.

He sat there and watched the back of Sam's head. A ray of sunlight shone down through the window and caught in the chestnut locks and it gleamed; the younger man's bangs fluttered over his forehead in the gentle breeze. Sam really would be a lady killer if he ever attempted to get out into society. Dean liked to think that it was all in their genetics.

"So, Bobby's in town until later. You want some food? I can make us an early lunch. How's about a grilled cheese sandwich?" When Sam still didn't move, he pushed. "C'mon, dude, I know you gotta be hungry."

A slight nod. Dean would have missed it if he hadn't been paying attention.

"Good. I'll go get started on that." Dean stood up from his perch on the edge of the bed. "You're welcome to come downstairs and join me. I don't bite. And I don't wanna hear any crap about you bein' too scared to leave the attic. We both know that's not true," he stated matter-of-factly.

At that, Sam looked over at Dean. There was mild amusement in his jewel-toned hazels, but it was only for a fraction of a second before he tucked it back under, hid it away.

Dean was bothered more than he expected to be by that. Sam shouldn't feel like he had to hide. _Why did Sam feel he needed to keep his emotions buried?_ Dean promised himself (and Sam) that he would make the kid smile again…a real, genuine smile all full of dimples like in the pictures he'd seen of his brother when he was a little kid.

"Well, I'll leave you to it. Food should be done in a bit. If I don't see you, I'll bring a plate up."

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	9. Chapter 9

**~~~ CHAPTER NINE ~~~**

Dean set a pan to warming on the stove before he went to the refrigerator to find the makings for their sandwiches. He smiled when he found a package of honey ham in the compartment with the cheese. He was sure Sam would like it; Dean knew _he_ did. A little meat never hurt anyone.

As he waited for the cheese to melt, he looked through the cabinets for something to go along with their meal. "Ah-ha," he said as he pulled down a bag of potato chips and tossed it onto the counter.

It wasn't much, but the food smelled good as it cooked. By the time Dean was done, he had six sandwiches piled high on the serving plate. He was a little let down that Sam hadn't decided to bite the bullet and come down—he had really hoped something would change, that Sam would give him a chance—but what were you gonna do? Maybe there was more damage upstairs than they knew.

He set the serving dish down on the island and then went to grab two plates from the cupboard. They almost slipped from his hands when he turned back around and saw Sam standing on the other side of the counter.

"Shit!" The word burst from Dean's mouth before he could stop it as he fumbled with the dishes before they fell to the floor. It was crazy that he could hear a monster coming from a mile away while hunting, but Sam and Bobby could so easily ninja their way up behind him in this place. "I'm gonna have to hang a bell around your neck if you keep that up."

The younger man didn't make eye contact with Dean as he chewed on his bottom lip, perfect white teeth grinding into the soft, pink flesh. His right hand was held up against his chest and it gripped whatever it was that was at the end of the silver chain.

Dean got the plates safely set down and then gestured to the spread of food. "So, grilled ham and cheese and chips. It's not much, but it should put a dent in things. Oh, hang on…" Dean held up a hand telling Sam to wait a minute before spinning on his heel to open the fridge. "Can't forget the best part." He reached in and pulled out two beers. Before handing one to Sam, he twisted the caps off and tossed them in the trash.

Sam didn't reach out to accept the cold bottle, so Dean set it down on the counter. "What, don't like beer? Dude, you're not a Winchester if you don't like drinking brew," he said with a grin.

The younger man's eyes finally turned and met Dean's at those words. Dean wasn't sure what to make of that look; he hesitated for a brief moment before he opened the refrigerator again. He peered inside to see what else there was to drink.

"Well, if you don't want that, we've got orange juice, bottled water, prune juice," he wrinkled his nose at that, "uh, soda…" Dean glanced back over his shoulder to Sam, hoping to get some kind of answer. The kid was in mid-swig, eyes closed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed down his beer. Dean watched as the bottle slowly emptied. "Okay, beer it is then." He reached back into the refrigerator and grabbed two more bottles before closing the door.

"You wanna sit?" Dean gestured to the table with a tilt of his head. He picked up the plate full of sandwiches as well as the other two smaller ones and brought them over to breakfast table. He heard the crinkle of the chip bag and turned to see Sam following him with the chips and beer.

They sat in semi-comfortable silence as they ate, each sneaking glances at one another while they thought the other wasn't looking. Sam was on the far side of the table; he wasn't ready to be any closer than that, but Dean would take it. Baby steps…

Sam nearly inhaled his first sandwich and then looked up at Dean when he was done. Dean could see the unasked question. His brother was still hungry.

"Help yourself to whatever you want. I sure as hell ain't gonna eat five on my own. You want more, I'll make more," he offered as he sipped his beer.

When Dean finished his second sandwich and was poking at the remaining chips on his plate, he shifted back in his seat and watched as Sam tucked down his third sandwich.

"Can I ask you some questions?"

Sam wiped the clump of melted cheese off his plate with the last of his sandwich and put it into his mouth. He chewed silently, making Dean wait for his answer.

Dean could see his brother was thinking; the gears in his head were moving. Finally, Sam swallowed and gave a small nod. Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Good then. So, uh, I'll start with something easy." Dean picked at the label on the side of his beer bottle; his eyes fell to the necklace around Sam's neck and his gaze followed it down to a silver ring hanging from it; it had slipped out from Sam's shirt at some point. He had a pretty decent idea of what it was. Subconsciously, Dean tucked his right thumb in and rubbed it against the smooth finish of his father's ring.

"That Mom's?"

Sam followed his line of sight down to where the ring hung freely against his shirt. He looked back up and nodded a 'yes', but as he did, he reached up and tucked the ring protectively back under his collar.

"Don't worry, it's yours," Dean assured him. "I'm not gonna try to take it from you."

After a moment, Sam nodded, but he stared down at the table again; his hands had fallen down to his lap and his long bangs hid his eyes from Dean.

Dean sighed as he set his empty bottle down on the table. At this rate, he wasn't going to get anywhere with his brother. _Patience, Dean._

"Sam, you gotta understand that I meant what I said earlier. I just want to help you. We're family…_brothers_. Okay? Are you willing to let me try to help?"

Nothing.

"Alright, I see this is gonna take some time. You don't know me; it's a trust thing. I get it."

He wasn't looking for a response, but Sam's piercing eyes pulled up from the table then. Dean could see his brother wanted to let him in, but there was something holding him back. _Was he scared? _Maybe Sam felt safer in that place he went, behind those doors as Bobby had said.

Dean cleared his throat. "What got you like this, Sam?" He knew he might be pushing things, but he _had_ to know. "Did Samuel have something to do with it? The way you reacted earlier when I mentioned the 'H' word…"

A muscle in Sam's jaw flexed. Dean watched his brother closely. Something akin to hatred burned in the kid's eyes…and it wasn't directed at Dean.

"Okay, duly noted." Dean wanted to know more, but he knew if he continued down that path of questioning, Sam was likely to close himself off…or worse yet, run.

Dean got up and took out two more beers. He set one down in front of Sam and took his seat again. He drank half of his down in one go and smacked his lips. Sam watched every move he made.

"You ever had a beer before?" Dean asked curiously.

A nod.

Dean guessed Bobby might have had something to do with that and asked, "Bobby?"

Sam shook his head; the corner of his mouth twitched.

Dean barked out a laugh. He really wondered how much Bobby knew about his little brother. That right there gave Dean hope. 'Sam' was in there, and not that far down either.

Just then, the sound of a car door opening and closing was heard coming from outside. Both men looked at each other and before Dean could say anything, Sam darted for the stairs. He didn't bother calling out to his brother as the lock on the front door clicked and Bobby stepped inside.

"Perfect timing," Dean mumbled.

He drank the rest of his beer and got up to greet the older man at the door.

"Meant to be back sooner, but my lawyer friend got caught up with the Robinsons. They're going through one hell of a nasty divorce—he represents Mr. Robinson—and the missus showed up unexpectedly. I wouldn't want to touch that one with a ten foot pole.

"So how're things going around here?" he asked as he shucked off his jacket and hung it up.

"Good," Dean answered from where he was leaning up against the stair post. He waited for Bobby's reaction as the man walked towards the kitchen, knowing what he was going to see when he got there.

"Dean…" Dean could hear the wonder in the man's voice. "You got something you wanna share?"

Dean tucked his hands into his pockets and couldn't help the smile that formed on his face as he walked into the room.

"Progress," he replied.

"I'll say." Bobby's eyes were wide in bewilderment as he took in the two place settings at the table. "How'd you get 'im to do it?"

"Maybe he just likes me more than you," Dean teased good-naturedly. He was still a little in awe himself that Sam had actually come downstairs and had a meal with him all on his own.

As he started to clean up the table, Dean decided to keep Sam's adventures around the house to himself. His brother had to have had his reasons for sneaking around like he did; Dean didn't want to betray that now that they'd gotten this far.

When he set the empty beer bottles down on the counter, Bobby looked surprised.

"You gave him beer?"

"He _is_ twenty-two, you know."

"Huh. Yeah, I suppose so. Never thought to ask him if he wanted one."

There was one sandwich left and he offered it to Bobby who graciously took it, and then he closed the bag of chips and put them back in the cabinet where he'd found them.

He spoke as he dumped the crumbs off the plates into the garbage and then put them in the sink. "Your trip home… I think me and Sam are gonna need some time to get to know one another. Why don't you take your time, take a little vacation. You've been here for so long helpin' to take care of my family; you should take some time to visit yours."

"You sure about that, Dean? Just because you've had one pow-wow doesn't mean Sam's all better. He's been like that for years. You're not gonna get 'Sam' back overnight."

But Dean had seen something today; Sam was there, wanted to come out. Full immersion might just be the way to go.

"We'll be good. If anything happens, I've got your number, right? I'll call you."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon wore on and Dean became restless, so much so that Bobby told him to go find something to do; he didn't care what it was. So that was when Dean officially moved in.

He went out to the Impala, trailing a hand along her sleek finish. "Hey, Baby. Looks like this is gonna be home for a while. Whatcha think?" Dean looked up at the attic window, hoping to catch sight of Sam, but his brother wasn't there. He was probably off reading one of his books or working on more flowers.

His clothing duffel was already upstairs, but he had a few more bags still stashed in the car that could be brought in. Dean popped the trunk and grabbed the remaining bags; he slung them over his shoulder. His father's things would remain in the car; he wasn't ready to bring them in, not yet. The Colt would remain in the car as well, protected by the Devil's Trap which was painted on the underside of the trunk lid. Dean wasn't sure how permanent this whole thing was going to be—he still didn't want to give up hunting—but he'd have to worry about that later.

* * *

Evening came and Bobby made a hearty beef stew for dinner with fresh rolls on the side.

Sam didn't come downstairs to eat and since Bobby was leaving at the asscrack of dawn, he brought Sam's meal upstairs. He'd said that he wanted to talk to Sam for a little while. Dean figured the man was just making sure his brother was okay with being left alone with a near stranger.

After he ate, Dean took a stroll outdoors. (Bobby was still upstairs with Sam.) It was still light outside and he needed the fresh air after being cooped up in the house for the last two days. Dean was a man who needed to move constantly; he was used to chasing down creatures of the night. Playing house was something new and alien to him; it just didn't feel right.

The sound of the river passing below was soothing and he breathed in the heavy scent of pine in the air as he made his way around the large yard. Bobby had said the property extended well beyond the tree line. Fifty acres, the man had stated, most of it hugging the riverfront. Dean had no idea what he was going to do with all of it. He'd never had anything to call his own like this. And now he had a brother to share it all with.

After wandering aimlessly for almost an hour, Dean found himself at the edge of the garden he'd seen when he'd first arrived. The sun was at his back now and the last of its rays lit up the flowers and grasses with warm oranges and golds. Many of the plants were in full bloom, even this late in the season. The tall grasses and weeds running through it only added to the wild beauty of it. Dean found it odd that the rest of the yard was so meticulously groomed and yet the garden was left to be overrun by weeds. One of these days, he'd ask about that.

* * *

When he came back inside, Bobby was hunched over at the kitchen table writing.

"One of the first things I'm gonna do is get a TV," Dean said as he grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge.

"No cable," Bobby replied without looking up. "And the reception's shit."

Dean looked at the man with a raised eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find something else to keep yourself occupied." The older man kept writing.

"Well, I'll pick up some movies then. Apparently I've got enough money to do that."

"Whatever floats your boat."

Dean didn't like being ignored. "Dude, what crawled up your ass?"

With a heavy sigh, Bobby set the pen down and looked up at Dean. "You sure you're gonna be alright with him? I mean, I know you seem to be doing okay, but you don't know all of Sam's little quirks. Certain things set him off. He's…," he took his baseball cap off and swept his fingers through his thin hair, "…fragile."

"And he's my brother. Do I have to keep reminding you of that? And, if you remember, _you're_ the one who got in touch with me. Before that, I thought he was dead. I'm gonna do good by him. I might not go about things the same way you do, but has it occurred to you that that might be a _good_ thing? Maybe he needs a change of pace."

Bobby stared at Dean for longer than was comfortable, but then he nodded. "You could be right about that. Sorry. I know you mean well." He turned back to the notebook he'd been writing in when Dean walked in. "I've written down his schedule for you. You've got my number. You be sure to call me if you need anything, I don't care what time of day it is."

He held the book out to Dean and Dean took it. The hunter flipped through the pages knowing if he was going to do this, it might be better to break Sam out of his comfort zone, alter his schedule a little, maybe even completely. But Dean didn't say what was on his mind.

"You have my word."

Bobby stood up from the table then. "Well, I suppose I should get some packin' done and head to bed. It's an early flight."

"Bobby?" The older man stopped mid-stride as he was heading towards the stairs and turned back to face Dean. "Really, we'll be okay."

Bobby's lips pressed into a tight line as he considered Dean's words and then he nodded. "I'm sure you will."

* * *

Dean went upstairs shortly afterwards. He wanted to check on Sam, maybe say goodnight to his brother. It was only a few minutes after nine, but he found the younger man was already asleep, probably had been for some time by the looks of it. Dean pulled the blankets up higher on his brother's shoulders and the younger man didn't even flinch. He stayed with Sam for a few minutes. This time Sam didn't stir; he only snuggled deeper under the quilt.

Dean had no intentions of snooping around, but he glanced at Sam's desk as he turned to leave. Again, he wondered what Sam might know about this whole demon deal. He walked over to the desk and pulled the chair out to sit down and then reached over to flick on the small desk lamp. The _click_ of it turning on sounded loud to him and he looked over to make sure Sam hadn't woken up. Thankfully, his brother was still fast asleep.

There was a stack of notebooks piled high to his left; loose sheets of paper cluttered the rest of the surface of the desk. Underneath it all was Sam's laptop. Dean stared at it for a long moment, plucking at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger in indecision as he weighed the pros and cons of smuggling it away for a few hours. He finally decided that he didn't want to risk it; it just wasn't worth it. So, instead, he resorted to going through the handwritten notes.

An hour (or two?) later, Dean rubbed at his eyes. He stared down, bleary-eyed, at the notebook resting on the desk in front of him. In another life, Sam would have made a damn fine hunter. His research was some of the best Dean had ever seen, even competing with that of their father.

Sam had clearly been researching demons for years. There were things even Dean didn't know written in these books. His brother had detailed notes on hundreds of different demons, their hierarchies, their various strengths and weakness, their names and origins, summoning rituals… Dean could keep going. There were some pretty potent looking exorcism rituals recorded as well. And then there were the drawings of warding sigils; some of which he recognized from the walls around the attic, and others he already knew.

Dean closed the current notebook and reached for the next. He stilled when he heard Sam shifting across the room. _Fuck._ Slowly, he turned his head and looked towards his brother. The younger man had only turned over in his bed. Dean glanced down at the book in his hand then. He wanted to keep going, but he knew his time was limited; he wasn't sure if he wanted to chance it.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he contemplated it. One more. One more, then he'd go downstairs.

One more turned out to be three more. It was just after midnight by the time he put everything back in order and turned off the light. Sadly, there was just one mention of the yellow-eyed demon in the many pages Dean had read through. He found it strange that of all the demons his brother had researched—and had very extensive notes on—that this one particular demon, the _most_ important one, had next to nothing by its name.

* * *

Before calling it a night, Dean had one more thing he wanted to do. He pulled his cell out of his pocket and dialed.

Three rings in and the call was picked up. "Roadhouse."

It was Jo.

"Hey, sweetheart."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me. How're things goin'? I know I haven't-"

"Don't apologize. You don't have to, okay?"

Dean should have expected that. There was so much more behind those words than what they read at face value; he knew everything she wanted to say but wouldn't because she _knew_ him too well. If Jo wasn't so much younger than him and times were different, there might have been something between them, but they both knew it could never happen. Instead, they had fallen into the roles that they had: very good friends.

"Okay," he conceded as he scrubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. Dean had really been hoping Ellen would have answered the phone. He'd already been through the pity-party once, and even though Jo wasn't pushing, he could still pick up on it.

There was a bit of an uncomfortable silence then, but Jo broke it. "So, Mom says you came into some kind of inheritance. Is it bigger than a shack?"

Dean couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Yes, it's a little bigger than a shack."

"I can't believe you actually own something besides that car of yours." Dean could hear her giggling through the phone, but before he could reply with any type of comeback, she continued. "You know, I expect you to invite me up sometime. I could use a little vacation from this place; Mom's been ridin' my ass about school again."

"Sorry, kiddo. I've got some things I gotta take care of before I start havin' sorority parties. But I promise, when everything's settled, I'll see what I can do."

They caught up with each other for a few minutes, bantering back and forth like siblings, before Dean finally had to move on to what he'd originally called about; he needed to talk to Ellen. Jo reluctantly said goodbye and handed the phone over to her mother, but only after making Dean promise to either stop by the Roadhouse soon or to make good on his invite.

"Dean, it's good to hear from you. How's Maine?" Ellen asked when she got on the phone.

Dean didn't bother answering. He had other more important things he wanted to talk to the woman about. "You somewhere you can talk?" He didn't want everyone in the Roadhouse to overhear her end of the conversation. Some people, even if they were hunters, couldn't be trusted.

"Hang on, let me just get on the other phone out back." Dean could hear her voice through what he assumed was her hand covering the mouthpiece of the phone, _"Jo, honey, I gotta take this in the back."_

There was some rustling and Dean heard the second receiver pick up and the first being set back in its cradle.

"So, what's up? Problems?"

"Not exactly. I need you to promise me that you won't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. I still have a lot of things to figure out and I don't need anyone catchin' wind of what's goin' on."

"Dean, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just promise me."

"Yeah, sure thing, I promise. Now tell me what's goin' on?"

"Ellen, it's Sam. He's alive."

"Hold on. Who?"

"My brother, Sam. He's alive." Dean took a breath. It felt good to tell someone he could trust about this. "He and my mom… God, Ellen, they didn't die in the fire."

"What do you mean they didn't die? Dean, you and John, you two've been hunting the demon that killed them for years."

"It's him; I'm sure of it." Ellen was silent; Dean could practically hear her thinking. "Ellen?"

"What's your mom got to say about all of this?"

It was Dean's turn to be silent for a moment, and then, "She's gone. A year now."

More quiet. Dean knew this had to be hard for Ellen to accept, that she didn't want him to get hurt if it wasn't actually Sam. Finally, she spoke up. "I wanna say I'm sorry, but why wouldn't she have contacted you two after all these years. Surely she knew you and your dad were alive."

"I'm still trying to put all the pieces together, but from what I've been told, they thought Dad and me were dead. Samuel and the demon, something was goin' on between the two of them."

"Fuck." The word was so quiet, Dean barely heard it over the line. Ellen had a mouth on her when she wanted to use it, but the 'F-word' wasn't a common occurrence.

"Yeah. That's why I'm calling. I found Samuel's journals, but they just stopped after..."

It took Dean a while to get Ellen caught up on everything he knew: the things he'd read; the things Bobby had told him. She said she'd talk to Ash to see if he could dig anything else up on the whole 'Sam' situation as well, like what the demon might want with him and, if they were lucky, what happened to Sam back in '99. Ash could find almost anything if given enough time.

"Thanks, Ellen. This whole thing's just got me messed up right now. I'll tell you, Samuel's damn lucky he's dead."

"I can't say I disagree with you on that. – Well, you know I'm here if you need to talk. I'll get Ash started on what you've given me and I'll call when he finds something."

They said their goodbyes and Dean snapped his phone shut. He put the device down on the nightstand before getting up and stripping out of his clothes. He needed a hot shower and a good night's rest.

Tomorrow he and Sam were going to start on their road to becoming brothers again. Dean knew it wasn't going to be the smoothest ride, but they'd get there.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	10. Chapter 10

**~~~ CHAPTER TEN ~~~**

Dean was woken up by a knock at his door. "Mmph, what?" He was sprawled out on his stomach, pillow over his head.

"I'm heading out. – Sam's already awake; I said goodbye to him. He'll be expectin' somethin' to eat soon."

Dean peered out from under his pillow; he looked at the clock. It was 5:00 am, the asscrack of dawn. He let out a low groan and flopped over onto his back. Bobby had an hour and a half flight from Bar Harbor to Logan International down in Boston. From there he had a five hour flight to South Dakota.

"Is the sun even up yet?"

"Coffee's in the pot," Bobby said, ignoring Dean's whining. "You sure you're up to this? I can change plans if you-"

"I got it. Don't worry about us." Dean forced himself into an upright position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He scratched an itch behind his right ear and swept his hand through his bed-ruffled hair. He could see Bobby's form silhouetted in the doorway, the hallway light at his back.

"What in the world did that?"

"Huh?" The hunter was still half-asleep; he had no idea what the man was asking about.

"Your chest."

Dean looked down at the bandages, eyes still trying to focus. He wondered how the man could even see them in the dim light. "Oh, uh, werewolf…just before I got your letter."

"Shit. Got you good, didn't it?"

"Don't you have a plane to catch or something?" Dean wasn't in the mood for any mother-henning and he needed caffeine for his brain to start functioning above the level of caveman.

"You're one ornery son of a bitch in the morning, aren't you?" Bobby chuckled. "Well, I should be in Sioux Falls by four o'clock. I'll call you when I get in, see how things are going."

Yeah, Dean knew he was a bear in the morning. He felt a little bad for being snippy, but it was freaking _five o'clock_! "Yeah, alright." Dean couldn't imagine being on a plane that long. He hated the things; that's why he drove everywhere. Then again, he'd never been able to afford it much either. "Have a safe trip. – And really, Bobby, we'll be good." He looked over at the man, saw him fidgeting with his ball cap in his hands. Dean understood that Bobby was nervous leaving Sam.

"Alright, so, I'll, uh…I'll just be goin' then."

Dean watched the man turn and disappear down the hallway. He fell back onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "Fucking five o'clock," he grumbled out loud.

Slowly, but surely, Dean got up and brushed his teeth. After, he padded his way downstairs, bare feet silent as he moved through the house. The first thing he did was fill a mug with coffee and drink the scalding liquid down. He was half done with his second mug when he got started on breakfast. It was a good thing Dean knew how to cook or Sam would be living off of cold cereal.

By the time he turned thirteen, Dean had been able to cook more meals than his father knew how. That's what happens when you're left alone in motel rooms for days on end. Of all things, Dean had gotten addicted to the cooking channel. His father hadn't said anything about it when he'd figured it out. Actually, the man had benefited from it. The whole cooking thing tapered off around the age of sixteen. Dean had started hunting full-time and their daily diet rolled over to mostly fast food.

Dean found a waffle iron in a cabinet and instantly knew what was on today's menu. It had been too long since he'd made the things and they were one of his favorite foods to eat. After some more scrounging around, he found a bag of chocolate chips and added them to the batter. Nothing like a little chocolate to put a smile on someone's face. He hoped Sam would enjoy it as much as he did.

The first waffle was a complete failure—it had been a while, so sue him—but Dean got the second one right and every one thereafter. As a side, he microwaved some frozen, pre-made sausages. (He really just didn't feel like dealing with the mess that bacon was.) When everything was done to his satisfaction, Dean set up two plates with forks and knives on the tray as well as two glasses of orange juice and two coffees. He found a bottle of syrup and added that to the collection. He couldn't think of anything else they would need, so he started upstairs somewhat pleased with himself.

He grumbled a bit when he had to set everything down to unlock the attic door. That was something that was going to need to change, but he'd deal with it for now. Finally, he was heading up the stairs and into Sam's room.

"Rise and shine, Sammy. Breakfast is served," he called out as he walked over to the coffee table and put everything down.

Sam was once more sitting at his desk and he looked over at Dean. Dean could see that one of the notebooks he'd looked through last night was in his brother's hand. He wondered briefly if Sam knew what he'd done. Dean tried to keep the guilty look off his face as he arranged their plates on the small table.

"I made waffles. And I hope you like chocolate chips because, man, I think there's more chocolate in them than waffle."

Dean sat down on one end of the loveseat giving Sam plenty of space to join him at the other end. This time, it only took a minute for his brother to come over and sit down with him.

"So," Dean started as he chewed, "it's just me and you now."

Sam said nothing, but Dean noticed the kid must've liked the food because he was already mostly done with the first waffle.

"You like 'em?"

Sam looked up from his food and gave Dean a slight nod before delving back in.

"Good." Dean cut a sausage in half and took a bite. "So, uh, what do you want to do today? You ever go outside?"

Sam didn't answer him; he just continued to eat.

"Okay, I'll take that as a 'no'." Dean speared the other half of the sausage and wiped it through the syrup on his plate. He finished it off and began on his other waffle. "How 'bout cards, d'you play?"

The younger man took a sip of his orange juice; he hadn't touched the coffee. Dean wondered if Sam even liked coffee.

A nod was given a moment later.

"Awesome. We'll have to make it a date then."

Dean finished up his meal and sat back in the loveseat, making himself comfortable. He searched his mind for something safe to talk about, but the whole demon/hunter thing was really getting to him.

Before Dean knew what he was doing, the question spilled from his mouth. "Have you ever seen it, the demon?" _Fuck!_ Dean cursed himself when he heard what he'd just said.

Sam's eyes snapped up, pupil's going wide. Dean saw that same muscle from yesterday flex in his brother's jaw. And then he was up and moving, almost knocking the coffee table over when his knee hit it in his haste to get away. Sam stormed off across the room. He stopped at the window overlooking the river and stared out into the distance, avoiding Dean.

Dean could see the tense set of the younger man's broad shoulders from where he still sat. But he had to know. He wondered how bad Sam would react if he pushed…

"Sam…" Dean stood up and took a couple of steps towards his brother, but stopped a dozen feet from him. "Look, I'm only asking because I need more facts if I'm gonna help you. And I can. I know you're scared, but you're safe with me. As a matter of fact, I'm gonna take care of warding the rest of the house today. That way you can go wherever and not have to worry."

Sam's hands were curled into tight fists at his sides; he didn't look at Dean.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean pleaded.

And then there was a nod.

_Shit._ Okay, what was he saying 'yes' to? Dean gnawed at his lower lip. "Was that a 'yes' that you've seen it?"

Another slow nod.

Okay. "When? Recently?"

Sam turned to face Dean then. There were tears spilling down his cheeks when he shook his head 'no'.

_Dammit._ Dean hadn't set out to get his brother upset like this. But then again, he _was_ answering questions, so he asked another.

"Do you know what he wants with you?"

Wrong question.

It started with Sam's fingers. They began to twitch at his sides. The slight tremor worked its way up his arms and his breathing suddenly sounded strained. He swayed on his feet and blindly reached out to grip the window sill when his legs began to buckle.

And then things around the room began to vibrate and rattle: the pens and pencils on the desk; the books on the shelves; the lamp; their dishes…

"Oh, shit!" Dean didn't have time to take in everything that was happening around him before he was bolting across the room to catch his brother as he went down. Somehow he made it before Sam hit the floor. The kid was having some sort of panic attack…and Dean had set it off.

"Sammy, breathe, okay? I'm sorry. I'm pushing for too much, too quickly. Breathe, little brother. Deep breaths. C'mon."

Dean took Sam's weight into his arms and hauled him over to the bed. It was the first time he'd laid hands on the kid since meeting him—well, aside from the other night and that hardly counted—and Dean hoped that wouldn't set off some other adverse reaction; he didn't need to get taken out by a book gone airborne. His brother curled in on himself once on the mattress and closed his eyes tightly, shutting Dean out.

Dean pulled the quilt up over the younger man and rubbed Sam's upper arm, trying to calm him down. "Take it easy, kiddo. Breathe, man." He took a second to look around the room. The rattling and shifting of loose objects had come to a halt as Sam began to settle down.

The brothers stayed like that for a while, calming words being spoken by Dean while Sam remained tucked into the fetal position, all doors closed to the older brother. After some time, Sam's trembling subsided and Dean could hear soft wisps of breath coming from him. Sam was asleep.

"Way to go, idiot," Dean chided himself as he carded fingers through the short spikes of his hair.

Bobby had mentioned some things would set Sam off, but he hadn't said how badly. It definitely didn't take a lot to set off the telekinetic stuff. He could only imagine what it was like the day their mother had died.

Dean was going to have to find another way to approach this. He had to remember, this wasn't some random case; he had to have some compassion for his brother. Obviously, Sam had been through enough and Dean had to take that into consideration. This wasn't just an in-and-out job where he could leave the emotional fallout for others to take care of. This was his _brother_.

"It's okay, Sam. Sleep it off. I'll be back in a few."

But as Dean descended the stairs, one thing was on his mind:

_Sam knew what the demon wanted._

* * *

After cleaning up from breakfast, Dean returned to the panic room. He wanted to get started on warding the house and he'd seen bags of rock salt down there on the shelves. Salting the windows and doors was the quickest way to lock the place down. It would give him time to decide which sigils were the best to put up and where for more permanent protection.

It took more time (and salt) than he thought to get the place secured. The house had more windows than Dean could ever possibly know what to do with. When he was done, he left a partially filled bag sitting to the side of the front door, and one at the back door as well. They were the most commonly used doors in the house and it wouldn't hurt to keep some extra salt lying around.

He checked his watch when he was done and saw that more than an hour had passed. _Damn_. He'd really wanted to get back upstairs to Sam sooner than that. Before heading up, Dean went to the refrigerator and got two bottles of water.

When he got upstairs, Dean set the bottles down on the nightstand and took a seat on the edge of Sam's bed. He made sure to keep his movements slow, not wanting to wake his brother up as he settled in to get comfortable. He wasn't sure how long he was going to be there…minutes or hours. The clock beside the bed said it wasn't even nine o'clock yet, but it felt like forever since Bobby had left. On a regular day, Dean would hardly have made it out of bed by now.

It ended up being another forty-five minutes before Sam stirred. Dean figured the kid had to be exhausted. To keep himself mentally locked up like he did had wear on a person after a while. And Sam had been doing it for years.

Dean closed the thick book he'd been perusing for the last twenty minutes—he'd pulled it off the shelf after boredom had set in earlier. The exact title was lost a little in translation, but it was some kind of encyclopedia of demons and other creatures of Hell. It made for some pretty interesting reading.

Sam's foot hit Dean in the thigh as he shifted in the bed, trying to stretch out. The contact caused the younger man to pull back almost immediately. He obviously hadn't expected anyone to be there. Weary eyes peered up at Dean from the blankets.

"Hey. How're you feeling?"

Nothing.

_Great. Back to square one_.

Dean turned, situating himself so he could bend his right leg and rest his knee on the bed, making sure to keep from touching Sam.

"I know what this must look like, like I'm some creepy stalker-dude or something, but I wanted to make sure you were okay." He reached up and rubbed at the nape of his neck before he continued. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier. I jumped the gun a little there…well, more like a lot. Bobby didn't tell me shit like that could happen.

"I'm a little screwed up like that. I see the end, but don't think about the means. I've never had to deal with other people's feelings. Dad and I…we always just did what we had to and then moved on. And I guess I was sort of doing that here. So, yeah, I'm sorry. I won't push again. If you wanna tell me things, I'll leave it up to you to do it in your own time."

_I won't hurt you again._

Sam's eyes remained on Dean the whole time. Dean sighed. He had no idea what was going through his brother's head at the moment. Would Sam accept his apology? Or would he continue to shut Dean out?

"Anyway, I brought you some water if you need it." Dean gestured to the nightstand. "Oh, and if you feel like it later, I've taken care of salting all the windows and doors in the house while you were sleeping. I figure maybe, you know, if you want, you can help me figure out what wardings to put up and where. If you don't want to help, that's fine, too."

Gold-flecked hazels continued to stare up at Dean. Sam shifted again. This time, when he accidentally bumped into Dean, he didn't flinch, but remained where he was.

"Well, I'll just let you be…if you're okay. Y'okay?"

A full minute passed, but Sam gave a shallow nod.

"Good. I'll just be downstairs doing whatever. I'll check on you later, then?"

He waited a moment for Sam to respond. When he didn't, Dean got up and replaced the book on the shelf. He looked over at his brother before heading back to the stairs. The younger man pulled the blankets up higher around himself, but he still continued to watch Dean intently.

"Alright then. How about lunch at two? I'll make some baked macaroni and cheese. I could add some tuna and make it into a casserole."

Nothing again. But Dean didn't let it faze him. He understood Sam wasn't going to answer every question.

* * *

Dean had roughly four hours to kill before he had to get started on lunch. The first thing he did was get dressed: jeans, t-shirt, flannel, and shoes. He couldn't run around in just sweatpants and a t-shirt all day.

He had one particular thing in mind since he had some time on his hands: Dean had yet to explore the garage. He wondered what kind of truck Samuel had had. It wasn't something that had ever come up in any of his conversations with Bobby. All he knew was that it was a Ford; the blue oval embossed on the head of the key gave that away. He wasn't sure about that; he was more of a Chevy man himself…but a truck was a truck.

He headed down the hallway past both Bobby's quarters and the laundry room across the hall from it. When he opened the door and flicked on the lights, Dean lifted an eyebrow and smiled.

There was a black F-350 sitting in the far bay; it gleamed under the fluorescent lights which hung from the ceiling. "Not bad," Dean complimented as he stepped down the two stairs and into the garage.

His eyes roamed the large room. The walls were sheet-rocked and finished; the floor was tiled with variegated blue and gray ceramic. Several black and silver-accented tool chests were lined up against the back wall along with a couple of oversized cabinets. Cardboard boxes were in neat stacks at the back of the room as well; Dean assumed they held Samuel's personal belongings. (Bobby had mentioned he'd put the stuff in the garage.)

A riding lawnmower sat in the nearer bay; behind it was a push mower. A wide assortment of other lawn tools were neatly organized in the corner: a weed-whacker, a pair of sheers, and a shovel were some of the items Dean could identify.

He cringed inwardly thinking about having to do actual lawn work. And shoveling? He groaned inwardly at the thought of busting his ass in the bitter cold. But then his eyes fell on a plow blade sitting behind the truck.

"Nice." He grinned.

Dean checked out the truck after taking in the room—that's why he was out here after all. Without consulting the owner's manual, he didn't know the year, but it was a newer model, newer than anything he or his father had ever owned. He climbed up inside and automatically adjusted the seat for his long legs. Dean wasn't used to sitting so high off the ground; it reminded him a little of his dad's old GMC.

Nothing would ever replace Baby, but if he was going to be spending any time in the great state of Maine, he was going to need a truck, especially after the first snowfall.

He spent a couple of minutes getting acclimated with the interior of the truck. He sifted through the console (finding some fake I.D.s while he was at it) and then flipped through the glove compartment; there were only registration and insurance papers in it. Dean lost interest fairly quickly and got out, closing the door behind him.

When he checked the cabinets along the far wall, he found bottles of oil, filters, a few other miscellaneous car parts…nothing he hadn't already seen before. The tool chests held a decent variety of tools. Dean took out a socket wrench and spun it just because and then placed it back in the drawer before rolling it shut.

After giving a final look around, Dean turned to go back inside, but just as he was reaching for the doorknob, he glanced down at the workbench to the left of the door; he hadn't really looked at what was on it before. His gaze fell on a pair of women's gardening gloves. They had, at one time, been white with little pink and yellow rosebuds on them, but they were well-used and were now soil-stained. Dean stopped and picked them up. They had to have been his mother's at one time.

The garden in the backyard came immediately to mind. No wonder it was less than well-cared for at the moment. It had been his mother's. And it probably hadn't been tended to since her passing.

Dean set the gloves back down. As he did, he saw a second pair, a men's pair, on the counter as well. At first thought, he figured they were Bobby's, but they didn't look like they'd been used in a while. Were they Sam's?

Before Dean realized what he was doing, he had the larger pair of gloves in his hand and was heading out the back door of the garage towards the garden. He needed something to do until it was time to start lunch. Why not spend some quality time in the garden?

Dean didn't know squat about plants—except for certain herbs he'd needed for particular spells and rituals—but he could figure out the difference between a flower and a weed.

* * *

The temps were only in the mid-60s, but less than twenty minutes into his newest endeavor, Dean had worked up a decent sweat. He shed his flannel and used it to wipe the beads of moisture from his forehead and neck. When he was done, he tossed it over a large bush with bluish-purple flowers on it.

Getting the garden back to its former glory wasn't something that could be accomplished in just a few hours; Dean knew that when he started. He likened the garden to his brother in some ways. Getting Sam back to his former, carefree self wasn't going to happen overnight either.

Another half hour in, Dean raised his arm to wipe more sweat from his forehead. He looked around at his slow, but steady progress. The garden surrounding him was huge, not just some fly-by-night hobby. Dean didn't know the names of the flowers, but there were vibrant purples, stunning blues, fiery reds, soft pinks, pale whites, and golden yellows—nearly every color of the rainbow—all around him.

As he yanked on one particularly obstinate weed—it was deeply rooted in the soil and didn't want to give up the ghost—he thought about Sam. Through clenched teeth, he grit out, "Sammy," he pulled and heaved, thankful he had gloves on, "I hope you're not gonna be as—_fuck_—stubborn as these weeds."

And then the plant let loose and Dean grunted as he stumbled backwards, falling back onto his ass in the dirt.

"Shit," he muttered as he sat there staring down at the vine-like weed still clenched in his fists.

Before Dean got back up to his feet, he glanced up at the house. It stood tall over the backyard; the morning sun shone down against it, reflecting brightly off the windows causing them to sparkle. Dean shielded his eyes from the light and as he did, he could just make out a figure in the attic window looking down on him.

Sam.

Dean's eyes focused on the younger man and suddenly his breath caught in his throat. Sam was smiling, an honest-to-god, perfectly wide and dimpled grin. (Dean couldn't see the dimples, but he knew they were there.)

And then, too quickly, Sam was gone.

Dean watched the empty window, but his brother didn't reappear. He briefly wondered if Sam was okay with him being out in the garden. If it had been something special between Sam and their mother…

But what Dean wanted to know more than anything was:

_What's it gonna take to get through to him?_

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	11. Chapter 11

**~~~ CHAPTER ELEVEN ~~~**

So…Sam had fucking smiled. Dean grinned at the thought. It didn't mean anything was fixed—not by a long shot—but it was something. Dean was still thinking about it an hour later as he waited in the kitchen for the casserole to finish. He was slightly behind schedule—it was now quarter past two—because he had needed to take a shower after wrestling with the weeds and dirt out in the garden. And Sam was currently a no-show for lunch. Apparently, that 'something' wasn't quite enough.

He'd really hoped some of his brother's walls might start coming down after that rare show of emotion. Sam had a positive connection to the garden; Dean was sure of it. If he could somehow get the younger man out there, he might open up some, maybe even start talking.

The timer on the stove sounded, jolting Dean out of his ponderings. He turned the oven off before grabbing a potholder from a nearby drawer and pulling the macaroni and tuna casserole out. His stomach growled as he set the dish down on the counter beside their awaiting plates.

If someone had told Dean a week ago that he'd be cooking meals like some domesticated housewife in the near future, he would have given them a thorough beat down. (Not that he had anything against a woman who could cook a good meal, mind you.) But Dean survived on testosterone and adrenaline…not measuring out ingredients and washing dishes.

Resigned to the fact that Sam wanted to be alone, Dean began to scoop the macaroni out onto their plates. He wasn't sure what his brother would want to drink, so he took out a bottle of water and a beer for Sam, and a beer for himself. He loaded up the serving tray with just Sam's things and made his way over to the stairs only to come to a sudden halt when he looked up and saw his brother sitting on the top step.

They stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments…Sam caught, Dean just not knowing what to say.

"Oh…uh, were you coming down?"

Sam remained still, long enough that Dean had to shift the tray in his hands before his arm got too tired.

"Sam?" Dean arched his brow higher trying to get Sam to do something. He glanced down that the serving of casserole and then back up to his brother. "Dude, this stuff tastes a lot better more hot than cold. And the cheese, well it sorta-"

But Sam was starting to move. Dean stopped talking as the younger man lifted a hand to the railing and stood up; it was fifty-fifty on which way he was going to go. Dean grinned in triumph when Sam's right foot moved forward and landed on the next step down.

"Good decision."

Dean moved away from the stairs and made a detour to the kitchen to collect his food and drink. With a last minute change of plan, he headed down the hallway to the three-season porch instead of the breakfast table.

When Sam hesitated to follow, Dean looked over his shoulder. His brother was hovering in the hallway, chewing on his lower lip.

"C'mon. You could use a little sunlight. And it's safe. I've put lines down out here, too."

Dean gave Sam an encouraging smile. It was like trying to guide a skittish colt out of the barn for the first time. With some gentle coaxing, they'd get there.

He watched Sam consider things. His brother tilted his head to look around Dean, eyes searching for the salt lines. When he saw them, he flashed a glance at Dean and then he stepped out into the porch.

"See, it's not so bad." Dean grinned. "Now get eating. You gotta get some meat on those bones."

* * *

Much to Dean's surprise, Sam stuck around to help with the cleaning afterwards. And when Dean took too long trying to figure out the dishwasher, his brother came to his rescue. He stepped up beside him (almost close enough for them to touch) and pointed out where the soap went and which buttons needed to be pushed. Dean didn't try to force a conversation; they worked quietly side by side, the kitchen slowly becoming spotless once again.

When they finished and all that was left was the sound of the dishwasher moving through its cycles, Sam disappeared upstairs again without a word. A few minutes later, Dean heard the shower on the second floor running. For some reason that made him think about laundry. Admittedly, his clothes were in severe need of washing. If he dug, he might find another clean shirt. Then there was Sam. He guessed Bobby had taken care of the younger man's clothes. Dean would have to check on that, too.

The sun had begun its steady descent in the sky by the time Dean went to his room to retrieve his clothing duffel. When he got down to the laundry room, he dumped his clothes out onto the floor and sifted through them. Now that he had a few bucks to his name, he ought to start replacing some things. Most of his shirts were threadbare; his jeans—however comfortable they were—had too many holes in them. And almost all of them had blood stains on them…not all of it from other things either; some of it was his own. There was a story behind every drop.

After he got the first load going, Dean wandered aimlessly through the house; it was readily apparent that Sam wasn't going to come back downstairs. Dean found himself starting to get the itch to go for a long drive, but he wasn't sure if Sam would be okay if he was left on his own. All Dean needed was for his brother to go into panic mode when no one was around to see him through it.

He could call Ellen, see how Ash was coming along on things, but it had been less than twenty-four hours. Ash was good, but he wasn't _that_ good. Dean would give him another day before he started bugging him.

Maybe he could give Sam another go.

The next thing Dean knew, he was back upstairs standing outside the attic door. He gave a soft knock against the wood before he opened it and started up the stairs. Sam was sitting on the loveseat, bent over the coffee table, bangs keeping most of his face hidden. His eyes flicked up to Dean, but they went right back down to the small piece of purple paper which he held in his hands.

Dean stood at the top of the stairs and watched as Sam's long fingers handled the paper with expert precision, folding it again and again into peaks and valleys. Several minutes passed and the once flat piece of paper was beginning to take shape. It was another flower. Sam tucked one of the ends inside before giving it a once-over and then he set it down on the table.

Sam looked up from his work when he was done. He glanced from Dean to the empty spot on the loveseat beside him and Dean didn't have to second guess what that meant; he joined his brother on the couch.

Dean reached over to the table and, before picking up a sheet of paper, asked, "Can I?"

Sam watched him; he nodded his head.

Dean could swear he saw something of a challenge in his brother's too expressive eyes as he pulled a blue slip of paper out of the pile. _What, does Sam actually think I would try to compete with what he just did? Ha! No friggin' way._

"Flowers are a little outta my league," Dean said as he leaned over the table in much the same way as Sam had and began to fold, "but I can do this..."

He creased the paper down the middle to create a centerline and then began to fold in the edges. A minute later, Dean had a less-than-glamorous paper airplane in his hand. He threw it into the air where it immediately banked a hard left, did a half-loop, and then landed at Sam's feet.

"They sorta suck, huh?" Dean commented as Sam picked it up and studied it.

At his words, Sam's eyes came up and he frowned at Dean. He shook his head 'no' as he looked over the folds. He pressed his teeth into his lip as he did and Dean knew Sam was thinking. And then the younger man added two more folds to it before launching it into the air again. The paper plane sailed smoothly to the other end of the room.

Dean watched it in child-like awe, mouth slightly open. "How the hell'd you do that? I've been making those all my life. You're tellin' me I was two folds away from a perfect plane?"

Sam's eyes were lit up when he looked away from where the plane had landed on the floor and back to Dean. The corner of his mouth twitched.

_C'mon, Sammy, smile. You can do it._

But the younger man suppressed it; Dean tried not to show his upset over it.

"So, you and Mom, did she teach you how to make these?" Dean reached over and picked up the delicate flower from the table. "I saw a basket of 'em in her room, and then you've got those." He pointed to the couple dozen flowers hanging in the window.

Sam looked down; it took him a moment to respond, but he nodded. It had been a year, but Dean could understand how hard it must've hit Sam. Samuel sure as hell hadn't made the last twelve months or so easy, at least not from what Bobby had said.

"D'you think you can you teach me?"

Sam looked up and lifted an eyebrow at the request, but he picked up a bright yellow square of paper from the table and handed it to Dean. He took a second piece from the pile; this time, an orange one.

Dean looked on as Sam slowly began to make several folds. His brother stopped and looked up at him. Sam was waiting for him to do the same.

"Okay, I think I got it."

Dean glanced over at the beginnings of Sam's flower and then attempted to duplicate the intricate folds. When he was done, Sam flipped the paper over and made a couple more folds. Dean copied him.

Things got harder after that. The folds started to get smaller, more complicated. Dean tried to keep up with Sam, but his fingers were just too big and clumsy; he wondered how Sam and his large hands could create something so delicate. The closest Dean ever had to come to fine movements like that was stitching up torn skin and, even then, he wasn't that precise; he just did what he had to do.

By the time they were done, Sam had another beautiful blossom in his hands and Dean's looked more like a... Well—he lifted his brow as he looked at it—not a flower.

Dean cracked a smile…and then he burst out laughing. "Dude, it looks like a freaking duck!"

Sam looked at him, confusion crossing over his features. His brows drew together as he looked down at the less-than-flowerly creation in Dean's hand.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean snorted out through his laughter, "tell me the truth. It doesn't even come close to what you did."

And there it was.

Dean did it; he'd gotten his brother to smile…dimples and all.

* * *

Afterwards, Sam fell back into his normal self, but the air felt lighter somehow. Dean kicked back on the loveseat and allowed himself to get comfortable.

"Can you make things besides flowers?" he asked, genuinely interested.

Sam was collecting the papers on the table and was just standing up to put them away on the shelf. He nodded to Dean.

Dean watched as Sam put the supplies away and then crossed the room where he crouched down in front of his nightstand. He shuffled some things around before pulling something out and coming back to Dean with it. He set it down on the table.

It was a bird. The thing was nearly a foot tall and impressed Dean even more than the flowers had. It was made up of hundreds of small pieces of paper of varying colors: yellow, white, red, orange, several shades of green, turquoise, and black. And it stood on two spindly legs made from paper-wrapped wire.

"You did that?" Dean asked in amazement.

Sam nodded, pride showing on his face.

"That's awesome." Dean smiled as he carefully picked up the bird and looked at it from all sides. "This must've taken forever to make," he said as he set it back down.

He was happy his brother had found something to do to keep himself occupied, but it didn't compare to actually having a life outside of this house. Sam deserved so much more than folding paper and reading dusty, old books. Dean was going to do his best to make sure that changed.

"Hey, you want pizza for dinner tonight?" he asked out of the blue.

Sam didn't even think before he gave an enthusiastic nod.

* * *

Something was missing.

They were sitting in the living room, Sam on the couch, Dean in the chair closest to the back door. The pizza had just gotten there…two actually: one large with sun-dried tomatoes, feta cheese, and broccoli (that was Sam's), and one large with sausage, pepperoni, and onions for Dean.

Dean frowned as he tried to pick out what was wrong. Beer…check. Napkins…check. Plates…check. And then he noticed it.

There was no television.

"Dude, don't you ever get bored without a TV around?"

Sam had just taken a large bite out of his slice of pizza; a string of mozzarella stretched out between his mouth and the slice. He shrugged as he got control of the wayward cheese.

Dean was half through with his first slice of pizza. He set it down on his plate and reached over to pick his beer up from the table. After a long swig, he put it back down and took another bite.

With a mouth full of food, he continued. "Seriously? What do you ever do for fun around here? I mean," he swallowed, "are you tellin' me you've never watched any movies?"

Again the younger man shrugged.

"As soon as I get a chance, I'm ordering a TV and a stack of DVDs. You'll be a new man after I'm done with you. Chuck Norris, dude. And Stallone. You gotta see the Rocky movies," he said with a grin.

His brother's expression remained mostly neutral as he polished off his first slice and picked up another. Sam had no idea who Dean was even talking about.

Things were worse than Dean had thought. Sam didn't have a clue what was out there.

Life.

* * *

The next afternoon found Dean back down in the panic room. He was picking up the mess he'd left on the floor the other day. After he was done, he spent some time playing with the safe until he knew what the actual combination was. (It would certainly be helpful to know in the future.) The journals he placed back inside without reading again; he was still absorbing things from the first time around. The only thing he didn't put away was a couple hundred dollars. At some point he was going to need cash.

When he stepped out of the room close to an hour later, he found Sam sitting at the bottom of the stairs to the basement. His brother had a large book opened in his lap and was studying it intently. He either didn't hear Dean or just didn't bother to look up.

The hunter watched him for a while before clearing his throat. Sam looked up at that. When he made to get up, Dean stopped him.

"No. Don't. Stick around for a while. Like I said, this place is yours, too," Dean said as he moved behind the desk and sat down in the leather office chair; the material creaked under his weight. "There're some things I wanted to check out on the computer before going back up anyway. Take your time."

Dean hadn't really been planning on working on the computer, but he also didn't want Sam to feel like he was being rushed off.

As he waited for the machine to boot up, Dean rocked back in the seat and thought about Sam. This was only Dean's fourth day at the house and Sam seemed to be making leaps and bounds. He wondered if the kid was as bad as Bobby had made him out to be. Sure, they'd had a couple of set-backs (courtesy of Dean and his big mouth), but they seemed to be moving along decent enough. Dean figured, as long as he watched what he said, Sam would come around in no time flat.

Dean didn't end up finding much on the computer. He spent more time looking at the pictures and trying to connect the baby/toddler/young boy/pre-teen/teen in them to the young man sitting at the other end of the room.

* * *

Later that night, Bobby called. He was just checking in, making sure the house was still standing. Dean informed him things were going well, but didn't elaborate. It was like an odd case of doctor/patient confidentiality and he didn't want to break Sam's trust. When Bobby mentioned that he had an open-ended ticket and could come back as soon as Saturday (three days from now), Dean told him to take his time. If this whole thing was going to work, the less interference there was, the better.

The man reluctantly agreed; Dean could tell he wanted to hear more, but Dean continued to insist that everything was okay.

Before he packed it in for the night, Dean called Ellen. Ash still hadn't found anything.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	12. Chapter 12

**~~~ CHAPTER TWELVE ~~~**

Several more days passed without any noticeable change and Dean was slowly becoming accustomed to his brother's need for personal space. During those long hours, he worked in the garden if only to keep his restless hands occupied. So far, the weather had been holding up decent enough.

He wished Sam would actually make an attempt come out of the house for once; his brother could only benefit from the autumn sunshine as well as the fresh air. But Sam never ventured out, wouldn't even go near the doors. Dean did, however, catch him watching from the window upstairs from time to time.

* * *

The comfortable routine that Dean had fallen into was interrupted the following Wednesday night. He awoke to panicked yells reaching him through the floor from upstairs.

Dean quickly threw off his blankets and jumped out of bed. Blindly running for the hallway—towards Sam—Dean stumbled and nearly crashed into the door frame as he tried to wake up.

"Fuck!" he yelled when he got to the door and remembered he needed his keys.

He spun on his heel and ran back to his room, still hearing the screaming coming from above, then a hard _thump_. An instant later there were several more. _Shit!_ He quickly sifted through the pockets of his jeans until he found his keys and returned to the door. A moment later, it swung wide, smacking the wall behind it, and Dean was rushing up the stairs.

In the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp, Dean could see Sam on the floor, back pressed up against the bed. The younger man was curled in on himself, eyes and mouth both clenched tightly shut; his hands were fisted against his temples as if he was in pain. And in between the loud sobs, he was crying out.

Dean heard—more than saw—things rattling on the shelves; a few of the books had already tumbled to the floor and were scattered at his feet. Dean figured that's what the loud _thumps_ were that he'd heard from downstairs.

He wasted no time in rushing over to Sam, landing on his knees beside his brother and taking him into his arms. The younger man fought and struggled against his grip, but Dean refused to let go. Instead, he held fast and whispered calming words to Sam.

"Hey, Sam, it's okay. I'm here. You're safe. It's okay." He shushed his brother and cupped the back of the younger man's head as he pulled Sam into his shoulder. They rocked together on the area rug beside the bed, and he repeated, "It's okay."

Dean felt the younger man's fingers press into the bare skin of his back. (He hadn't thought—or had the time—to slip a shirt on before coming up.) He ignored the slight sting of his brother's blunt nails digging into his flesh and continued to hold Sam until the tremors began to die down. Even then, he continued to hold Sam.

After a short while, his brother's body became heavier as he slipped back into sleep, his breaths becoming steady again. Dean stayed there on the floor just holding Sam. Twenty-two years had gone by and he'd never gotten this; he'd never been able to soothe Sam when he awoke from a nightmare like a big brother should. Dean was glad he could finally be here for once.

"I got you, Sammy. And I'm never gonna leave you again," he whispered into the top of Sam's hair, smelling the light scent of the younger man's shampoo as he did. He placed a gentle kiss to the crown of his brother's head as he continued to rock him in his sleep.

* * *

Suffice to say, Dean didn't get much sleep that night. Even after Sam awoke just enough to climb back into bed, Dean stayed with him for the remainder of the night, watching for a repeat of the nightmare or whatever it was that had happened. Thankfully, nothing had, but he was still going to call Bobby to see how often this happened. Was this a one-time thing, or a common occurrence?

Sam either didn't remember it happening or he was too embarrassed about it to acknowledge it when Dean brought the night's events up after breakfast the next morning (which Sam took alone in his bedroom). Dean didn't push having learned his lesson already.

Once the breakfast mess was cleaned up and put away, Dean grabbed his cellphone and went out to the garage, closing the door behind him for privacy. He sat down on the stoop and dialed Bobby's number.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"You sound like crap, son. Everything alright?"

"Didn't get much sleep. What can you tell me about his nightmares?" Dean heard a low intake of breath through the line. "Bobby?"

"Hell, it's been a while since he's had one of those. How bad was it?"

"Woke me up out of a sound sleep. He was screaming; books were fallin' off the shelves. Looked like he was in pain, too. Why didn't you tell me about them?"

"I was hopin' he was done with them by some miracle; it's been a few months since he's had one. Sam—the poor kid—he's always had nightmares long as I can remember; I don't know what they are, Dean. Even when he did talk, he never spoke about them. Why they'd be startin' up again…" There was a heavy pause. "Shit…"

"What is it?"

"If he's startin' to have them again, he might just-"

Dean could hear the man cursing under his breath. "What, Bobby?"

"Well, he gets these headaches sometimes—like migraines, only worse—but they usually only last a short while. Those started after they found 'im. One second he's fine, the next he's on the floor, writhing in agony. Last one he got was about a month or so ago; it was probably one of the worst I've seen him get yet. The thing knocked him out for two damn days. – Dean, have you been pushing him for info, been bringing up the past?"

Dean wanted to snap back that of course he hadn't been…but that would have been a lie. He thought about the panic attack last week, the morning Bobby left. _Was this his fault? Had Dean triggered these things by pushing Sam too hard, too fast?_

When he didn't answer right away, Bobby spoke up again. "Dammit. You did, didn't you?"

Dean wiped an open hand over his mouth before answering. "The morning you left, I—_shit_—I slipped up. I asked him about the demon."

"I should come back there and whoop your ass, boy! – What happened?"

"He, um," Dean fidgeted, rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, "he had some sort of a panic attack. But we got through it," he added quickly before the man could tear into him again. "He was fine after. I promised him I wouldn't do it again."

"Stupid idjit," Bobby mumbled. Dean didn't reply to that, not when he deserved it. "What's he doin' now?"

"He's upstairs, doing whatever it is that he does when he wants to be by himself. He didn't come down for breakfast this morning, ate in his room. I think it took a lot out of him."

"They always did that to him. I suggest you keep a close eye on him for a while. – Aside from that, how have things been going? You two been gettin' along okay?"

"We're not batting a thousand, but we're doing alright. He's been coming downstairs for most of his meals, eating in the kitchen; I even got him out on the porch a couple of times. – Hey, speaking of food, we're gettin' a little low on the basics…"

"Normally, I'd say go ahead and head into town—Sam's usually okay for a while on his own—but with what you just told me, I wouldn't suggest leaving him until you're sure he's back to normal…a few days, give or take. There's a number on the side of the fridge; it's for Hank down at the local market. Just tell 'im I told you to call. He'll send one of his boys up to the house with whatever you need. We have a tab down there, so there's no need for you to shell out any money."

_We have a tab at the local grocery store? Huh. _"Okay, thanks. I'll do that."

"You're welcome. – So, other than that, you're good then?"

"Yeah, I think so. Sorry to call you so early." It was only a little after seven in the morning which meant it was a little after six in Sioux Falls. "I just-"

"Don't worry about it," Bobby cut him off without making him explain which Dean was appreciative for. "I was up anyway."

They said goodbye to each other and Dean flipped his phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. He swept his hands through his hair and let out a deep sigh. He really had to find out what happened to Sam when he was sixteen. Just about everything that was wrong with his brother seemed to hinge on the events of '99.

* * *

Dean went back into the house after the call to Bobby and went upstairs; his steps were heavy with exhaustion. He was used to the long, adrenaline-fueled nights of hunting, but he still needed more than an hour or two of sleep. With a wide yawn, he unlocked the attic door and started up to his brother's room.

"Sam? I'm coming up," he announced himself. Dean was trying to make a habit of that; he didn't like to just go barging in without warning.

Sam was stretched out on his bed, shoulders and head propped up on a stack of billowy pillows; his legs were crossed at the ankle and he held a paperback novel in his hands. He placed a bookmark between the pages as he looked up at Dean and set the book aside.

"How're you doing?"

Sam shifted to sit up. Once he was upright, he shrugged.

"That good, huh?" Dean figured he'd get right to the point instead of beating around the bush. "Um, I was thinkin' about taking a little nap. Will you be okay on your own for a little while?"

Sam looked over to the stairs, then back up to Dean. He nodded.

"Do you need anything before I head in?"

The younger man shook his head 'no'.

"Alright then. You should get back to your book. I'll set my alarm for an hour from now. If you need me, I'll be in my room."

Sam shook his head 'no'.

"What?" Dean asked, having no idea what Sam was saying 'no' to.

His brother held up two fingers, then three with another shrug.

"You mean two or three hours?"

Sam nodded.

"You're sure?"

His brother nodded again. Dean thought he could almost see some guilt in Sam's eyes.

"It's not your fault, okay? Hell, even I have nightmares on occasion. Don't worry about it," he tried to reassure Sam.

The younger man didn't reply to that and Dean frowned slightly. "Okay, then. A couple of hours. I'll check on you when I get up. And really, if you need anything, just get me."

* * *

Dean set his alarm for an hour from now. (He could catch up on his sleep tonight.) He was asleep and softly snoring within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

When his eyes opened, the first thing they landed on was his clock; it was almost noon. "Shit," he groaned out as he rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. _What happened to eight-thirty?_

Dean wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked closer at the clock. He knew he'd set it properly, was positive, but the alarm had been turned off.

"Sam." The word came out in a sleep-roughened voice. He was pretty damn positive his brother had come downstairs and had taken it upon himself to flip the switch into the 'off' position.

He let himself wake up for a few minutes before getting up to relieve his bladder and brush his teeth. A shower could wait until later. He had plans to tackle some wild thorn bushes in the garden this afternoon. So far, he'd been putting the task off because they were somewhat daunting—the thorns were pretty damn scary on them…three inches each, at least—but Dean was in the mood for them today, especially after last night. It was hard not being able to just find a hunt to relieve his pent up energy; gardening could never come close. Nothing like a spirit or wendigo could.

_Maybe after Bobby comes back, I'll find something local…just a day or two…_

Five minutes later, Dean was dressed in one of his older pairs of pants (there was a small hole in the seat of them, but he didn't care) and a plain white t-shirt. The first thing he did was search out Sam to make sure he was okay—it had been four and a half hours since he'd been upstairs. Just as he was getting ready to push his key into the lock of the attic door, Dean heard a sound from downstairs.

"Sam?" he called out. Then he rolled his eyes. It wasn't like Sam was going to answer him.

He padded down the hallway in socked feet and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the first floor.

When he rounded the corner, Dean found Sam sitting at the counter on a barstool, eating an apple_; _there was a small plate of crackers and cheese in front of him. The younger man turned his head and looked at Dean when he came into the room. He continued to chew, then swallowed as Dean approached him.

Without asking, Dean reached over and snatched a piece of cheese and a cracker from the dish and ate them in one bite. It didn't seem to bother Sam and Dean smiled through the food.

"Thanks for lettin' me sleep. But you didn't have to do that, you know. I would've been fine. I'm used to gettin' only four hours a night when I'm out-" He cut himself off before the word 'hunting' came out.

Dean moved around the counter and pulled the refrigerator door open. He reached in and began pulling out the makings for a roast beef sandwich. "You want a sandwich?" he asked over his shoulder, glancing back at Sam, his hand still in the cold cut drawer.

Sam looked down at the remaining food in front of him.

"Dude, it won't go to waste," Dean said before snagging another cracker off the plate and tossing it into his mouth. He winked at Sam as he chewed, and then grinned, mouth full of half-masticated cracker when Sam smiled slightly and conceded with a nod.

"Good. Mustard or mayo?" Dean pulled both out of the fridge and set them down in front of Sam. The younger man tapped the side of the mustard. "Me, too."

Several minutes later, the brothers were sitting across from each other at the counter, each with two sandwiches in front of them.

"So, are you okay? Last night was pretty intense." Dean asked after a few bites into his first sandwich.

Sam stilled. His dark eyes lifted up to Dean; they were wide and innocent, yet they held something else in them that Dean couldn't quiet decipher. He could see Sam swallow thickly as he thought about his answer. And then there was a curt nod and the younger man looked down again.

_Well, if that's not a blatant lie, _Dean thought. He forced himself to take another bite of his sandwich.

Sam might seem like he was getting better, but Dean could see that his brother was still a long way from letting him in completely. The way Sam had been interacting with him lately was probably no different than how he interacted with Bobby. Dean wanted more than that. This was his damn brother and he wanted that relationship more than he ever knew he could.

"Okay. So, you know, I'm here if you wanna talk…or whatever."

Sam didn't reply; he only picked at the crust of his sandwich.

And that, unfortunately, set the atmosphere for the rest of their meal. They ate in to what Dean felt was an uncomfortable silence. Before he could object, Sam collected the plates and brought them over to the sink where he proceeded to wash them by hand.

Dean knew his time with Sam for the moment was done; Sam needed to be alone. "I think I'm gonna go out to the garden for a while," he said as he slipped down from his stool. "Feel free to join me. I wouldn't mind the company. – I, uh, put a salt line down around the perimeter, too."

Sam looked up from the sink of soapy water and lifted an eyebrow at that. The look he gave Dean was more of an 'Are you crazy?' look.

"They say it helps keep the snails out," Dean said by way of explanation as he walked towards the back door. _Amongst other things…_

Dean slipped on his boots before opening the door. He checked to make sure that the salt line was left intact before closing it behind him and heading out to the garden.

* * *

It was cold out today. (Frost hadn't set in yet, but the flowers were starting to look a little less than lively.) Dean could see his breath fogging out in front of him as he worked his way through the unwanted growth. If it was any cooler, he would've gone back to grab a flannel to put on, but he was good for now.

Every now and then he would peek up at the house, watching for Sam, but he never saw him. Dean was stumped on how to move forward with his brother. The only thing he could hope for was that Ash could provide some answers; otherwise, it seemed that the brothers Winchester were at a stalemate. Sam was showing all the classic signs of the innate stubbornness that ran in the family, especially on their father's side.

Dean was squatting down, concentrating on a small patch of errant grass when he felt something bump up against the side of his thigh. He froze, hunter instincts immediately kicking in. But when he looked down, he arched an eyebrow at what he saw.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he grumbled as beady eyes stared up at him. "Shoo, go away," Dean said, waving his hand at the creature.

A long tail curved through the air as it butted its head up against the hunter again looking for attention.

_Meow._

Dean didn't like cats. He was a guy; guys liked dogs. (And even then, Dean didn't like dogs either.)

"Don't you have a mouse to chase after or something?"

The cat—it was a gray tabby with green eyes flecked with gold that caught in the light—plopped its butt down right next to Dean and let out another pitiful '_meow'._

Dean couldn't tell if it was old or young, male or female. He knew next to nothing about cats…and he certainly didn't want to start learning now. "No." Dean tossed a weed at the stray. Nothing that would hurt it; he just wanted to startle it into going away.

Instead of scurrying off like Dean had hoped it would, it pounced on the stringy plant and began to chew on it as it rolled onto its back and kicked out at the dirt clump at the base of the weed.

"Seriously?" Dean almost whined. "Go away." He shooed it again, but the animal only sat up and tried to rub the side of its face against Dean's gloved hand.

The hunter gave up. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly three o'clock. Suddenly, a low rumble was heard in the distance. The sky above him was clear, but when Dean looked back behind him towards the house, he saw dark clouds rolling in. Rain…or more like a thunderstorm by the looks of it. It was late in the year for one, but who was he to argue with Mother Nature?

Dean looked back down at the cat. It was staring in the direction of the approaching storm. At the same time, a breeze kicked up and ruffled Dean's short hair.

"I think you ought to go home now or you're gonna get soaked. I might not know a lot about cats, but I do know you don't like getting wet."

Pushing up from the ground, Dean took his gloves off and dusted the dirt from his knees. He turned and started walking towards the house, not bothering to look behind him. A little eye contact and the cat might think he wanted it to follow him.

When he got up to the back patio, Dean knocked the dirt off his shoes and reached down to open the door.

_Meow._

The hunter turned around and stared down at the cat. The damn thing had followed him up from the garden. "I said no; you're not coming in."

_Meow._

He grit his teeth, pushed through the door and closed it on the stray. There was no freakin' way he was going to let a cat in the house. No. Way.

As he toed off his boots, Dean caught sight of Sam sitting on the couch. He had his book in his hand again. His brother was watching him, probably wondering who he was talking to by the intrigued expression on this face.

"I picked up an unwanted friend," he growled out, glancing down at the door behind him. Wide eyes stared up at Dean expectantly.

Sam sat up and looked past Dean. His eyebrows lifted up when he saw the cat pawing at the door.

"Just ignore it. It'll go away. The rain's comin' in soon; it'll find somewhere to go."

The younger man was still watching the animal through the glass of the French doors. He got up from the couch, setting his paperback down on the coffee table.

"Sam, no. Just leave it."

But his brother ignored him and walked over to the door. The cat watched Sam intently as the younger man crouched down and brought his hand to the glass. To Dean's surprise, the animal pushed its head up against the other side, trying to rub up against Sam.

_No. C'mon! Of all things…not a cat._

And then Sam reached up and turned the doorknob.

_Son of a bitch._

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	13. Chapter 13

**~~~ CHAPTER THIRTEEN ~~~**

"Fine. He can stay, but just until the rain goes away," Dean said as he stood there, arms folded over his chest as he looked down at the scene in front of him.

Sam was kneeling on the floor, his long fingers smoothing over the cat's back and then coming up to scratch under its chin. And shit, was that…? The thing was purring. Sam looked up at Dean; there was a sparkle in his brother's wide and pleading eyes.

The older man felt himself giving in…little…by…little. _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought again to himself. He couldn't believe he was breaking down from just that one look. That didn't bode well for Dean's future. He knew this wasn't going to be the only time he gave in to those puppy-dog eyes.

"Alright, alright. But you're taking care of him…her…whatever. I don't do cats." Cats were too much like big, freakin' rats...and Dean didn't do rats. Nope. They gave him the creeps.

Suddenly, Sam's face was covered from ear to ear with a wide smile, deep dimples carving into his cheeks.

"You're welcome," Dean said as he stared at that all-encompassing smile, grateful that Sam was starting to feel comfortable enough around him to show it. "But I think you might wanna give it a bath or something. The thing's probably got fleas." Dean moved into the kitchen and pulled Hank's number off the side of the fridge. He had a list of things he needed and he supposed he could add cat supplies to it.

"Hey, you want anything special from the store before I call this in?"

The cat had rolled over onto its back and Sam was rubbing the soft hairs of its belly. The stray looked like it was in Heaven as it absorbed all the attention Sam was showing it.

The younger man looked up at Dean, smile still plastered on his face, and nodded. With a final rub to the animal's head, he got up and walked into the kitchen. Dean handed him a pen and his brother wrote down one item.

_Gummy bears._

Dean barked out a laugh when he read it. "Dude, that's it? Candy?" And then he felt bad when Sam looked slightly embarrassed. "I just… No, never mind. You sure you don't want anything else? Any certain kinds of cereal, requests for meals? That kind of shit. You might as well write it down now. I'll figure out how to cook it later if I need to."

Sam looked thoughtful for a moment and then he nodded and picked up the pen again. By the time he was done, he had added a dozen things to the list.

Dean read over the additions. "That's better. And really? Steak? M&amp;Ms with peanuts? We're definitely brothers, dude." He cracked a smile. "Why don't you go keep the furball entertained while I call this in. I'll have them bring up an assortment of cat supplies, too, I guess."

* * *

Dean was just putting away the last bag of food when his phone rang. He immediately tensed up knowing it was probably one of two people: Bobby or Ellen.

When he checked the caller I.D., Dean rolled his bottom lip in and chewed on it in anticipation. It was Ellen. Dean could potentially know Sam's story within the next few minutes.

Finally, before it kicked over to voicemail, Dean answered.

"Hey, Ellen."

"Dean. Thought for a minute you weren't gonna pick up the phone." She didn't sound like her usual self on the phone…exhausted, worn out maybe? Or she had bad news. "You got some time, preferably somewhere quiet?"

Dean got the hint. In other words, she was asking if he could go somewhere where Sam wasn't. He glanced into the living room where his brother was once again on the couch. He had his book in hand and the cat was stretched out along his side enjoying another massage. And the bag of gummies lay open in his lap, probably half-eaten at the rate he'd been plowing through them.

"Yeah, just give me a sec."

Dean put the phone down on the counter and walked into the living room. "Hey, Sam," his brother looked up from his place in his book, "I have to take a call. You gonna be okay if I go upstairs for a while?"

Sam nodded innocently and Dean felt guilty that, more than likely, he was going to learn something not good on the phone about his little brother. "Alright, then. When I'm done, we'll get working on dinner. Sound good?"

Another nod and then Sam went back to his book without question.

Dean snatched his phone up from the counter and relocated to his room. "Okay, sorry about that." He closed the door behind him and went over to sit on the edge of the bureau. "So, what's up?"

"Ash said he's done. I'm just gonna put him on the phone so he can tell you what he found. – _Hey, Ash, get yer skinny ass over here. I got Dean on the phone._ – And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"It's not great news. I'm sorry."

Dean frowned at the woman's words. What the hell had Ash found? "Yeah, alright. Thanks, Ellen."

And then the crazy, somewhat obnoxious—but scarily high I.Q.'d—Ash was on the phone. "Heeey, Dean. How's it hangin'?"

Ash. Dean still couldn't believe the man had gone to MIT, even if he had gotten himself kicked out.

"Ash, it's been a while."

"Well, you can't blame me for everything now, can you?"

Dean knew what the man was referring to: the fact that he'd not been to the Roadhouse since before his father had died. "Yeah, I guess not. – So, what'd you find out?" he asked, not wanting to wait any longer than he had to. Ash could run off on a tangent and never come back if you didn't keep him reined in.

"You're gonna owe me a case of PBR when you get back here. I had to do some serious digging. Been on the phone non-stop for almost two days straight. And, damn, if my ear doesn't feel like it's gonna fall off. But I did manage to find out a few things for you."

"Well, spit it out then."

"Sorry, okay. So, where do you want me to start?"

Dean groaned. "Dude, just start somewhere."

"Alright. I can do that." Dean could hear the man chugging back a beer through the line: a smack of lips and a sigh. He could picture Ash tossing back his signature mullet—'All business up front, party in the back'—as he took the pull from his drink. "We'll begin with Grandpa Campbell then.

"Smooth criminal, Mr. Clean—whatever you wanna call 'im—he covered his tracks real good, man. Like, he must've squeaked when he walked. There's nothing out there on him aside from what a typical civi would have: DMV records, a couple of credit cards… He even had a subscription to Weekly World News—I renewed it for you; figured you could use some reading material."

Dean snorted a chuckle. Ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine percent of the stories in the tabloid paper were laughable, but once in a while you could find something worthwhile in it.

"Thanks."

"Hey, you would've done the same for me. – Sooo, getting back to Grandpa… I checked into his credit card history and it was a bust. Nothing out of the ordinary—just that the dude liked to collect old books. He held some shares of stock, but they've been liquefied in the last month or so. Looks like someone's been consolidating everything into a local bank in Milbridge under your name.

"I see you're basking in the green now. You gonna invite me out there sometime? We could have a little celebratory party or something. I hear the casinos down in Connecticut are the place to be these days."

Of course Ash would find out about the money; Dean should have known. "How about when we get this all figured out, I'll buy you two cases of PBR?"

"Cheapskate."

"Hey, so far you haven't given me enough to warrant _one_ case."

"Touché. – Anyway," Ash cleared his throat, "I checked in with a few hunters I know from out that way when the digital highway failed me; I put some feelers out to see if anyone knew anything about his dealings with the darker side of things. They didn't particularly have nice things to say about the guy—he had a reputation as a loner; more so than even the infamous John Winchester—but no one ever came right out and said anything about him playing for the other team. He was a hunter through and through—a smart one, too."

Dean couldn't help but be disappointed at the lack of information. "So that's it, nothing else?"

"Nada, man. Zilch. Like I said, squeaky clean."

So Samuel was a dead end. Why didn't that surprise him? If Dean could figure out the mystery that was Sam, he might just be able to find out more about what his grandfather had done, what deal he had made with the demon.

"What were you able to find out about my brother?"

"Sam... Yeah, give me just a sec…" There was some shuffling of papers on Ash's end of the line. "You said he disappeared back in '99, right? Found him in Detroit?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "At least that's what Bobby says."

"Rough place for a kid to end up." There was another pause from Ash and then Dean could hear him moving around. The clicking of keys suddenly sounded through the phone as the man began to type on his laptop. "Okay, here we go. Michigan Central Station. You know it?"

Yeah, Dean had heard of it. In its time, it had been a beautiful building…but that was a long time ago. Now it was just a creepy ass place, all run down and busted up.

"The old train station. Yeah. It shut down back in the late 80s or something."

"1988 to be exact. – The place had a little demon problem back in late spring of '99."

"Really?" Dean was surprised his dad hadn't been hot on that trail; the man could sniff out a demon five hundred miles away. They must have been off working some other case at the time.

"It wasn't anything big. I've only been able to put bits and pieces together—it's all hearsay, mind you, like a good ol' game of telephone, but with a little more booze; so I can't promise it's all fact—but it looks like when the hunters were working their way through the building, they came across a half dozen or so demons in one of the wings of the basement."

"And?"

"Patience, dude, I'm getting there. – So, rumor has it that these demons were holding a kid fitting your brother's description prisoner down there."

"What else do these 'rumors' say?" Dean's grip on his phone tightened as he waited for Ash to tell him.

"This is some heavy shit, Dean…if you believe it. You know how these stories get inflated, every hunter wanting to outdo the other guy." Ash cleared his throat again; another swig of whatever he was drinking could be heard being taken.

"Stop stallin' and just tell me what you found out," the hunter all but growled, needing to know. He would form his own conclusions later.

"Well, it's said that the kid they found—Sam, if we're guessing correctly on this—was being groomed to lead some kind of demonic army; he was supposed to be the new anti-Christ or some shit like that."

_Fuck. Sam leading some supernatural war? How was that even possible?_ But it reminded Dean about something he'd come across in one of Samuel's journals. Some demon the man had captured had said something about an upcoming war. What the hell was going on?

Dean kept his questions to himself and listened to what the man had to say.

"One of the guys I talked to—Pat O'Hare—said he heard from a friend of a friend a while back that some upper level demon had been there…one with yellow eyes. Do you think it's the same demon you and your dad…?" Ash didn't finish the question.

The hunter immediately felt his chest constrict at the mention of 'yellow eyes'. He had barely heard what the man had asked him. "Huh? Oh... Shit. Probably." Actually, Dean was sure of it.

Dean already knew that, by its own admission, the damn demon had laid claim on Sam somehow; it was probably the only reason Sam was still alive. That left the whole matter of what had Yellow Eyes done to his brother during the time he'd had him in his clutches? _Jesus, Sam had only been sixteen_. Dean wiped a hand over his face and let it drift to the nape of his neck where he rubbed at the tense muscles. He had been expecting something bad, but not this.

"Dude, man, are you sure Sam's what he seems?"

It was like Dean was underwater and hearing Ash from afar. He didn't answer the question; he was too lost in his own troubled thoughts. What had happened to Sam to make him want to close off to the world like he had? Had he been tortured, beaten? (Bobby had said Sam had been pretty roughed up when he'd gotten back to the house.) Or had they possessed him and made him do things against his will? Demons could really mess a person up when they wanted to; Dean had seen it firsthand and on plenty of occasions.

"Dean? Hey, man, you still there?"

"What?" The hunter finally acknowledged Ash. "Yeah, I'm here." Dean glanced back over his shoulder at the door. There was no way Sam could be possessed or otherwise like the man was alluding to, not with those sigils all over his room. Sam was just 'Sam', a twenty-two year old kid, nothing more. Dean was positive—well, aside from the freaky telekinetic shit. "I'm sure," he said with more than a little conviction. "He's human, Ash. The kid wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Sure, okay. I trust your judgment. Just felt someone needed to ask; it might as well be me."

Dean changed the subject then. "Do you have the names of the hunters who actually did the job?"

"Yeah, hang on. I've got 'em right here." Ash was quiet for a minute—there was another shuffle of papers—and then he spoke up again. "There were three of 'em, but they won't be much help though. Two are dead and I can't get a hold of the third guy."

"Who were they, Ash?"

"Well, there was Andy Hopkins—ex-G-man; CIA-type—but he bit it four years ago, got himself killed by a vamp; a kid by the name of Davie Jenkins—not much experience, but a smart up-and-comer—he didn't last long out there, met a nasty end with a ghoul two years back; and the other…" Ash went quiet all of a sudden.

"C'mon, man, who?" Dean bristled at Ash's hesitation. He hoped whoever it was, was someone who was still breathing.

"Glenn Waters."

Dean stumbled from his perch on the edge of the bureau. It felt like he'd been punched in the gut; his temper instantly rose. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Dean _knew_ the man, moved in the same circles as the hunter. They'd had drinks together for Christ's sake. What happened to the Winchester family was no secret—other hunters knew what had happened back in '83—and Glenn certainly wasn't in the dark about it.

And he was definitely still breathing.

He grit his teeth. Dean couldn't believe the man had never said anything. All the times they'd seen one another since then... Surely, Glenn had to have found out who Sam was. Otherwise, how would the youngest Winchester have gotten back to Maine after the ordeal?

"The probability that he knows why I'm calling-" Ash started, but Dean cut him off.

"That's okay; I've got it from here." Dean personally couldn't wait to drill the man for info. "Anything else?"

"Sorry, that's it. – D'you need Glenn's number?"

"It's in my phone." Yeah, that's how close they were, the bastard.

"Oh… Yeah. Well, okay."

"Thanks, Ash. If you come across anything else-"

"I'll call you. Good luck, Dean."

Dean hung up without bothering to say goodbye. He was doing all he could to hold it together. His fingers were trembling in anger as he pulled up his contact list and found Glenn's number.

He dialed without hesitation.

The phone rang…and rang…and rang. Voicemail picked up on the fourth ring. Dean hung up and gave it a minute before trying again. The same thing happened. He re-dialed for a third time, hoping the man would get the point and answer the damn phone.

The lack of an answer made Dean wonder if the man knew what was up like Ash had said. Glenn was a damn good hunter and, just like Dean, he could disappear into the woodwork if he wanted to. _Shit_.

When the hunter's voicemail picked up on the third try, Dean left a message. "You know who this is; I wanna know about Detroit. And Glenn, don't make me have to come find you." That was it. Dean felt that was enough to get the point across. He snapped his phone shut and tossed it onto the bed before going into the bathroom, flicking on the light, and then turning on the faucet at the sink. Dean splashed cold water over his face and leaned over the counter. He stared down at the water circling the drain before looking at himself in the mirror.

His face was flushed with rage as he thought over everything Ash had just told him. Six years ago Sam had been taken by demons; he'd been missing for three weeks. The yellow-eyed demon could have done anything to him during that time. It was no wonder he was a wreck. How did the kid even survive something like that?

_And how could Glenn not tell us?_

"Fucking son of a bitch!" Dean shouted out to the empty room. His grip on the counter tightened as he closed his eyes.

_He knew and never said a word._

Dean turned off the water and grabbed a towel to dry his face. He forced himself to take several deep breaths. Sam was downstairs. His brother. His brother who had survived whatever was going on so far. And Dean would make sure he lived through the rest of it. No demon was going to get its hands on his brother again, not if Dean had anything to say about it.

He could feel the hunter in him—it was scratching at his insides, trying to get out—and it was warring with the newly born, protective big brother. Dean wanted to sit the kid down and drill him for information. The hunter was saying, '_Screw the damn consequences_. _Things can be patched up after'. _But the big brother in him couldn't…wouldn't. Dean had promised he wouldn't do anything to hurt Sam again. And he kept his promises.

All the while, Dean was also trying to make sense of why Sam was still here in this house. Yellow Eyes could have come at any time for him. Hell, he was pretty sure now that the demon had been the one to kill Samuel. Why didn't it just take Sam then? What was it waiting for?

He chucked the towel into the hamper and turned to go back downstairs. Glenn had better damn well call him back. He wanted answers and he was sure the man had some.

* * *

Dean tried to act normal when he came back downstairs, like he wasn't just told that his brother was meant to be some kind of goddamned leader of some supernatural war.

Steak was on the menu—the storm had ended not long after it had started and Dean had made use out of the grill on the patio. Sam had eaten like there was no tomorrow, but Dean only picked at his food. He couldn't help but spend a good portion of the evening sneaking peeks at Sam, trying to picture him leading an army of demons. He just couldn't see it.

They were currently sitting across from each other at the kitchen table playing a round of War—_Ha! How fucking ironic_; Dean almost laughed. It was a mindless game, something he needed with his thoughts continuously drifting back to his earlier conversation with Ash.

"Hey, you wanna give Sylvester there a bath now?" he asked as he set his remaining cards down on the table. Dean needed something to take his mind off things.

Sam glanced at the tiger cat. It was over by the stairs, rubbing its body along the bottom step, more than likely marking its new territory.

"It should be entertaining. Cat plus water, dude." Dean snickered. "I'll let you do all the work. I'll play catch if it decides to make a break for it." _It'll be like chasing a greased pig,_ Dean mused.

Sam reached over the table and scooped up all the cards. He tapped them into a neat pile before stuffing them back into their box.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'?"

The younger man nodded as he got up from the table. Immediately, the cat came running over to him and Sam stooped down to pick it up. The animal curled up in the crook of his arm just as if it had been doing so its whole life.

Dean got up and followed. He grabbed the bottle of cat shampoo from the counter as he passed it. "This ought to be fun," he said to himself as he mounted the stairs to the second floor bathroom behind his brother.

Sam waited until Dean walked into the small room and closed the door behind him before letting the cat hop out of his arms. The animal must have had some sixth sense telling it what was going to happen because it immediately started scratching at the door and was vocalizing its discontent very loudly.

Dean grinned and looked from the cat to Sam. "Well, get the water running. I think two grown men can handle one little cat."

Famous last words, they say.

* * *

As soon as Sam turned the water on, the cat's volume increased tenfold. Several minutes passed as the tub began to fill up and, for every one that passed, Dean could see the animal was getting more and more freaked out.

"I think we should've filled the tub before we brought the thing in here."

Sam was sitting on the edge of the tub. He frowned and nodded his agreement when he looked down at the frightened animal. He reached in and turned off the water and then stood up, moving towards the cat.

"Be careful, Sam. He's lookin' kinda pissed off," Dean commented as Sam got down on the floor and cornered the small animal.

When the younger man reached out for the cat, it took a swipe at him and hissed. Dean chuckled as he watched the encounter.

Sam tried again. This time he just went for it and dove in for the proverbial kill. Dean had never seen (or heard) an animal spit and fight and yowl and…seem to grow six more legs as it fought as if its life depended on it. Sam held on tightly, wrestling with the creature, until he got it over to the tub full of warm water. When the cat grasped onto what was going to happen, it increased its efforts at escaping. Sam must have gotten tagged by the cat because suddenly it was free and shot across the room.

"Holy shit!" Dean crashed back up against the wall as the cat came flying at him. He ducked at the last second to avoid getting a face full of angry fur.

Sam was on the move and just barely managed to catch it again as it doubled back to try to avoid him. Dean was now laughing uncontrollably as he watched his brother try to tackle the five pound animal. That got a playful glare from Sam as he turned back to the awaiting water, arms wrapped around one fluffed up and pissed off feline.

More yowls filled the room as the cat struggled against the younger man's tight hold.

It was clear to Dean that Sam wasn't going to be able to do this on his own, so he moved in on the two of them and knelt down next to his brother. "Here, you hold; I'll wash."

The cat's legs shot out and grappled with the edges of the tub, but it soon gave in and let Sam inch it down into the water. Dean cupped his hands and scooped water over the creature. (He was starting to wish he'd grabbed a cup or something to make things easier. But, hey, he'd never given anything but himself a bath before.) All the while, its eyes shot heated daggers at the two men and its ears were flattened out against its head.

Dean reached up for the shampoo and popped the lid open. He lathered some up between his hands and started to wash the cat. As he did, he couldn't help but chuckle at the look on the animal's face. It was more of a death glare; he'd seen less from demons.

"I don't know who he hates more right now," Dean said as he rubbed the shampoo into the cat, "you or me?"

Sam's concentration was on the stray in his hands, but Dean's comment brought a smile to his face. While Dean massaged the shampoo into the cat's fur, he could see fine lines of red blossoming up on his brother's hands. The animal had definitely gotten Sam. He'd have to check out the scratches after they were done.

It wasn't long before Dean was rinsing the last of the soap off the cat. For the most part, it went rather smoothly once they got the animal into the tub. He was just about to say as much when Sam's grip on the cat must have slipped and the stray made its move.

Suddenly, Dean had a sopping wet ball of claws and teeth attached to his neck and chest. It moved quickly, scrambling over his shoulder with said claws tearing into him and then it used his back to launch itself from. And Dean felt every razor-sharp nail as they dug into his skin.

"Ow, goddammit!" Dean couldn't help but yell as he found himself losing balance and landing elbow deep in the water. _That's gonna leave a mark._

Sam grabbed a towel from behind them on the floor and tackled the feline with it. As he held the cat down, he scrubbed at its fur until it was mostly dry and stood up on end in short spikes. When its head peeked out from the soft, blue cotton, the animal still had a scowl on its face.

After Sam was done, he reached up and opened the door. The cat bolted out without looking back.

Dean sat back against the toilet and let his arms rest on his knees in front of him. He had successfully hunted werewolves, black dogs, spirits, wendigos, vamps, demons, changelings… But he'd never had to deal with a pissed off cat until today.

"Well, _that_ was bucketloads of awesome," he commented dryly as he picked up a towel and started mopping himself off.

A quiet noise was heard coming from Sam's direction and Dean looked up at his brother.

Sam was laughing.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	14. Chapter 14

**~~~ CHAPTER FOURTEEN ~~~**

Together, they made quick work of wiping down the bathroom and cleaning up the mess left behind the storm that was the cat. Dean knew he had some serious scratches going on if the stinging along his chest, neck, shoulder, and back had anything to say about it and he was sure peroxide was in his near future. And he still wanted to look at Sam's hands, make sure nothing was too bad.

When they left the bathroom, Dean stopped Sam from heading off in search of the cat. "Dude, leave him. He's gonna be PMS'ing for a while. Plus, I wanna check out those scratches." He looked pointedly down at Sam's hands. Because they'd been in the water for so long, Dean could see that the wounds were still red and not quite clotted yet. "I've got a first aid kit in my stuff. C'mon."

Dean started down the hallway to his room. He noticed right away that Sam wasn't following and turned back to face his brother, understanding exactly why the younger man was hesitating. "It's _my_ room now, Sam. All of his stuff is gone. Bobby moved it out before I even got here. Now let's go before I bleed all over the floor." He pulled his chin into his chest and eyeballed the blooming crimson stain on his t-shirt as he spoke.

That got Sam moving. As they stepped into Dean's bedroom, the older man peeled out of his wet t-shirt. _Another good shirt bites the dust_, he thought as he tossed it in the vicinity of the bathroom.

"Why don't you go wash your hands while I get the kit from my bag."

Dean opened the closet door and knelt down to rummage through one of his duffel bags; he hadn't completely unpacked everything yet. When he spotted the first aid kit, he took it out and headed back out into the bedroom.

Sam was hovering by the bathroom door when Dean came out. His eyes were roaming around the room and taking in the small changes Dean had made. Really, it wasn't much different. Dean had gotten rid of a few small things, specifically the iron artwork (they were in the garage now) and he had a couple of flannels tossed around here and there. Some dirty clothes were in a pile in one corner; a sock or two might have found their way to a couple of random spots. Dean never really did care too much about neatness. He supposed that's what happened when you grew up living out of motel rooms your whole life.

"Take a seat," Dean said as he set the first aid kit down on the bed next to Sam and dragged the ottoman over from across the room. As he sat down on it, Dean noticed his brother was staring at him…well, not at him, more like his chest.

Sam reached up and his hand hesitated just inches away from the still healing scratches from the werewolf. Dean had just taken the bandages off and pulled the stitches yesterday; he didn't say anything as his brother's eyes searched over the fresh, pink skin.

Multi-colored eyes pulled up from the scars and looked at Dean. He could see the question Sam wanted to ask, but he also knew his brother probably already had some idea of where it came from. Sam knew he was a hunter after all.

"D'you really wanna know?"

Sam drew his hand back from Dean and turned his gaze down to the floor between them, but he nodded.

"Werewolf."

Dean watched as his brother reacted to the word. Sam's fingers curled into fists, but his hands remained steady in his lap. The younger man took a deep breath and focused on keeping himself calm.

"You alright?"

Sam let out a controlled breath and looked up at Dean again. He nodded again.

Dean knew this was a big step for his brother. Sam was making an attempt to talk about something that would normally set him off into a panic.

Silence spread between them for too long and Dean decided to interrupt it. "C'mon, let me check on your hands and then I gotta take care of my shoulder."

Dean held a hand out and waited for his brother. He wasn't sure what the younger man was going to do. The few times that he'd touched him, Sam had pretty much been out of it. This was a little more intimate and Sam was fully awake and aware of what was going on.

Sam hesitated; his fingers twitched in his lap. Dean could almost sense that the kid was warring with something inside himself. Finally, Sam uncurled his fingers and slowly lifted his right hand up for inspection.

Dean was gentle with him as he looked over the fine scratches. He was pleased to see that they had already clotted in the last few minutes and he hummed in satisfaction. "Looks good. How about the other one?"

There was a longer line of red on Sam's left hand; it ran from the last knuckle of his thumb all the way up to his wrist. It, like the others, wasn't deep, but Dean would feel better if he gave it a quick cleaning. He reached over and flipped open the tabs on the first aid kit. From it, he took out the bottle of peroxide and a fresh gauze pad.

As Dean unscrewed the lid to the bottle, he said, "This'll sting some, but it'll keep it from getting infected."

Sam nodded and held his hand steady as Dean swabbed over the scratch. He flinched slightly, but didn't make a sound.

"There. All set. I'd say you got lucky."

Dean went to get up to throw out the used gauze, but Sam reached out and set a firm hand down on Dean's thigh, holding him there.

The hunter was somewhat startled, not expecting Sam to be so assertive all of a sudden. "What?"

Sam gestured to Dean's shoulder with his chin.

"Don't worry. I've got it."

At that, Sam shook his head 'no' and took the bottle of peroxide away from Dean with a stern look. He pulled more gauze out of the box beside him and turned back to Dean.

"Okay. Have at it, dude."

Sam took care as he cleaned Dean's injuries; his eyes were focused intently on what he was doing. The older man tried not to jump when the sting of the peroxide bit at the scratches. _Friggin' cats._ He sat still as Sam eventually stood up and moved around to his back where he knew the scratches ran deeper.

Dean stilled when he heard a quiet intake of breath. _Shit._ He knew exactly what Sam was looking at. His back was worse than his chest, especially after that damn daeva he and his father had run into a couple of years back; some stupid demon thought it could control the thing. It had really messed him up good…both of them in fact; they'd been lucky to have survived that attack. Both Winchesters had ended up in the hospital after the job was done. (They had had a pretty hard time convincing the doctors that it had been a bear attack in downtown Chicago.)

"Sam…" Dean jumped when the cold sting of peroxide touched his left shoulder blade unexpectedly and smoothed over it. It disappeared just as quickly as it began and then Sam reappeared from behind him. He started to go through the box looking for something. When he turned around again, he had bandages and gauze tape in his hand.

_Seriously? How bad did that damn cat get me?_ Dean wondered.

There was the light press of the bandage being applied and finally Sam came around and collected the soiled gauze pads and headed into the bathroom with them. While Sam was out of the room, Dean got up and went to the bureau where he took a fresh shirt out of the drawer. He started to pull it on. When his head popped out through the collar, he saw Sam standing by the bathroom door watching him.

"You should probably find a dry shirt. You look like a drowned rat."

The younger man shrugged. Instead of heading to his room to get a new shirt, he just stood there like he was…waiting for something.

"What?" Dean asked. When he saw Sam wasn't going anywhere, he went back to his bureau and pulled out another clean shirt, tossing it to his brother. "And put that on before you freeze."

Sam did as he was instructed, tossing his wet shirt to the floor where it joined Dean's ruined one. After, he continued to stand there, watching Dean.

Dean waited patiently for his brother to answer his question, but he didn't. Instead, he saw his brother's eyes flicker down to his chest again, to where the scars were hidden beneath the thin cotton. _Oh._

"I'm fine, Sam…really. It looks worse than it is. Sometimes the job gets a little rough is all. Is that what-?"

Sam shook his head 'no' before Dean could finish the question. He crossed the room to sit back down on the bed and then he pointed at Dean.

"Me? You wanna know about me?"

Sam sent him another look and then he glanced around the room like he was searching for something. He looked disappointed when he couldn't find a way to express what he wanted. Dean suddenly had a feeling he knew what Sam was after.

"You don't have to, you know." He was trying to give Sam an out. His brother was pushing himself.

Sam gave Dean what the older man could only call a 'bitchface'. Dean could see him gritting his teeth, and he could practically hear the 'I'm not a little kid' coming from his brother even though he had no idea what Sam's voice even sounded like.

"Alright, if you insist. But remember, Bobby'll kick my ass if he finds out, especially if—you know—something sets you off."

Sam shook his head. And then he made those puppy-dog eyes again.

"Oh, no. Don't you go thinkin' you're gonna go pullin' that on me every time you want something."

The younger man lifted a brow like he was confused about what Dean was talking about.

"The eyes, Sam. You get that look when you want something." The corner of Sam's mouth twitched. He tried to hide it, but Dean had already seen it. "Yeah, see, you know you're doing it. – But you really wanna know?"

Sam became serious again. He nodded his head.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair; he could feel that it was damp from their adventure in the bathroom. "Okay. But Sam," his brother looked at him, "you tell me if it's too much. You don't need to do all this at once, not for my benefit." Sam studied him, hazel eyes staring into moss green. A small reassuring smile made a brief appearance, and then there was a nod. "So, I guess I'll just start from the beginning. Like I said, feel free to stop me or just—I don't know—walk off if you feel you need to."

Just then, the cat came skulking into the room. It jumped up onto the bed and rubbed its still wet head up against Sam's side. Sam pet the animal until it finally curled up against the warmth of his jean-clad thigh and started grooming itself.

And then Dean began.

* * *

Sam lasted longer than Dean would have expected. And he didn't have to stop because Sam was having a hard time with it; he had to stop because the younger man had dozed off. It was late, nearing midnight by then. Sam was usually in bed long before now.

Dean folded the comforter over from the empty side of the bed and covered the younger man with it. He didn't have it in him to wake him. By now, the cat had nestled up against Sam's lower back and was fairly dry after having groomed itself for the last couple of hours.

He stayed there for a while just watching his brother sleep. Sam's dark hair was fanned out over the pillow and his soft inhalations and exhalations of breath were calm and steady.

Eventually, Dean got up from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed and went to the bathroom to take a leak and brush his teeth. When he came out, he thought about where he was going to sleep. Really, he didn't want to leave Sam alone. The kid had been sleeping upstairs for so long; it was likely that if he woke up alone in here all by himself, he was going to have some kind of an issue.

Dean eventually resorted to climbing under the sheets and lying down on the bed beside his brother. He soon drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Both men slept through the night…at least Dean thought so. When he awoke, it was to find himself alone and covered with the comforter. He checked the clock. It was just after 9:00 a.m. Sam was sure to have been up for a couple of hours by now.

He rolled over, scratching absently at the mostly healed wounds on his chest. They were still irritating him even after a couple of weeks.

As he lay there staring up at the ceiling, he thought about his conversation with Sam from last night. (Well, it wasn't much of a conversation since Dean did all the talking, but screw the semantics.) Dean still couldn't believe Sam had sat there so calmly listening to him as he spoke of their father, of himself, and of the various supernatural creatures they'd hunted over the years…including demons.

Sam had been particularly interested in the demons. Dean had made sure to tread lightly on that subject. He had left a few things out, including the yellow-eyed demon. There were a few times when Sam would give him a pinched look. His brother wasn't dumb; he knew what Dean was doing, but Dean didn't give in. He wasn't going to trigger Sam.

Dean wondered what today was going to bring as he sat up and swung his feet down to the floor. He yelped, more in surprise than anything, when something sharp scratched the side of his right ankle. He instantly pulled his feet back up onto the bed. If he didn't know better, he'd grab his gun from the nightstand drawer.

He leapt off the bed, giving it a berth of a few feet and then got down on his knees. At the same moment, a flash of gray and black shot out from under the bed and raced out the door.

"Sam!"

Oh, yeah, that cat had it out for him. He knew there was a reason he didn't like the things, and this one was turning out to be no exception.

* * *

Sam was huddled over his desk when Dean finally searched him out. Much to his surprise, the attic door had been left open; more than likely it was to allow Psycho Kitty to come and go as he pleased. At least the animal was worth something. Maybe Sam would start to leave the door open all the time now.

"You give that thing a name yet?"

The younger man snapped the small book he'd been looking through shut and shoved it under some papers. Obviously, Sam hadn't heard Dean coming up the stairs; the hunter was curious as to what his brother felt he needed to keep hidden from him, but he kept it to himself. Sam didn't have to share everything with him just because they were brothers.

He pulled his eyes away from the stack of papers and looked at Sam. "So, did you?" At the other man's blank, but more than a little guilty, look—_huh, now Dean might be a little more than interested in that book—_Dean repeated, "Did you give the little hellion a name yet?"

Sam looked around the room until his eyes landed on the cat; it was batting around one of his origami flowers that it had knocked to the floor. He shrugged.

"I could come up with a few," Dean deadpanned.

Sam lifted a brow at that and then he grinned knowingly.

"He's a little bastard, Sam. Damn cat tried to eat my foot a little while ago." His comment caused Sam to cough on a laugh. "C'mon, something's gotta be goin' through that head of yours." Dean glanced back at the cat and saw Sam's copy of 'Lord of the Rings' sitting on the coffee table. "How 'bout Frodo? It would complement you." Dean's green eyes shone in the light coming through the window. "Sam and Frodo." The older man snickered at his own joke and was caught off-guard when Sam threw a wadded up piece of paper at him.

"Dude, until you name it, I'm calling him Frodo." Dean winked at his brother mischievously as he headed back towards the stairs. "I'm gonna get breakfast started. I'll see you downstairs."

As Dean jogged down the stairs, he thought about how good it felt to be able to talk to Sam like that and to be able to jokingly banter back and forth with him. It was something they missed out on growing up separately as they did.

Dean was looking forward to a lot more of it.

* * *

The brothers were quietly sitting together, Sam reading his novel and Dean (having given in and pulled out Samuel's journals again) was reading through the journal that told of his—scratch that—_their_ mother's deal. He was now looking at things from a slightly different perspective now that he knew a little more about Sam and the demon; he still didn't have a lot to go on, but it wouldn't hurt to double-check just in case he'd missed something the last time around. Dean wasn't sure if his brother knew what he was reading, but he certainly wasn't going to go advertising what it was. So far, Sam didn't show much interest.

Early in the afternoon, the cat began to scratch at the door to the backyard. It wanted to go back outside.

"Dude, Frodo wants out. Maybe he has to go back to the Shire or something." The words had a drawl to them. He didn't realize how tired he was getting.

Dean sat up from where he was slouched in the oversized chair and rubbed at his eyes. Someday he was going to have to look into getting a pair of reading glasses. (Or maybe he should just stop reading in such poor light.) He stretched, arms rising high up over his head causing his shirt to pull up and exposing his flat stomach. It felt good to do that without the pull of stitches after not being able to for so long. Next time, he'd have to remember not to hit the bottle before hunting. It just wasn't worth it.

_Meow._

Sam got up and went over to the cat. He got down on one knee and gave it a good scratch between the ears; the animal butted its head up against his leg.

_Meow._

Giving in to the cat's demands, Sam stood up and unlatched the door. When he opened it wide enough, the cat scurried out, heading straight towards the garden. Sam watched it disappear into the plants.

Dean saw the worried look on his brother's face. "He'll be back, Sam."

Sam nodded and turned around. He left his book on the coffee table and headed off into the kitchen where Dean could hear the refrigerator door opening. The _crack_ of two beers being opened sounded through the room and Sam came in and handed him a cold one.

"Thanks, man." Dean took a long pull from the bottle before turning and throwing his arm over the back of the chair he was sitting in. "Hey, you think you might wanna come out to the garden with me today. I promise you, it's safe. Plus, you can visit Frodo," he added with a grin.

Sam was looking off into middle distance. It was something Dean was getting used to the kid doing when he was uncomfortable with a subject that was brought up.

"Or not. If you're not ready, you're not ready," Dean said as he got up from his chair and walked around his brother. It was weird how when he walked by Sam he wanted to reach up and ruffle the kid's long hair, maybe annoy him a little like any good big brother would do to their little brother. But he kept his hands to himself.

Dean was still getting used to not being able to touch. Not that he was a handsy person by any means, but still. Even he and their father had touched every now and then…a hand to the shoulder; a pat on the back; hell, even a smack upside the head when deserved. (Dean was more on the receiving end of that one than not.) But with Sam, he just didn't know what was acceptable and he tended to keep his hands to himself. He'd let Sam take the lead on that.

"Well, the frost is gonna hit soon and there's just a bit more I wanna get done out there." Dean drained his beer and tossed the bottle into the garbage. "You don't have to decide right now—I'll be out there for a little while—so, you know, if you change your mind..."

Dean picked the journal up from where he'd left it on the chair then and took a run back downstairs to put it away. (There were just some things Sam didn't need to know about right now.) When he got back upstairs, Sam was still in the kitchen, leaning up against the island, his eyes trained on the back door.

"You good?" Dean asked.

Sam looked at him and gave him a nod.

"Alright. I'm just gonna go out through the garage." Dean shoved his feet into his boots which he had left in the foyer yesterday before heading down the hallway.

* * *

The sun was out, but it was mostly overcast keeping it from warming the afternoon up. Dean had an overshirt on over a long-sleeved t-shirt today, but even with the layers, he could feel the chill biting at him. He really wouldn't be surprised to see snow sometime in the next week or so. It _was _Maine after all.

Dean stood in the middle of the garden and looked around at what he'd done so far. He was roughly halfway through with the weeding; he thought his mother would be proud. He still wasn't sure what his long-term plans were with this place…with his life. Things were a little more complicated now than they used to be. He couldn't just up and sell the house on a whim if he wanted to, not with Sam. And he wasn't going to leave Sam behind. They had no one but each other now. He knew whichever path he—_they_—took, there were going to be some hard decisions to be made.

There was a bush—more like a collection of long stalks—with pink blossoms off to the side that was plagued with grasses as high as Dean's waist; he opted to tackle that next. He was just settling onto his knees when he heard a sound behind him. It was certainly too large to be the cat. That meant…

"Sam," Dean said with a broad smile as he turned and looked up at his brother.

Sam was dressed warmly with a dark beanie tugged down over his hair and ears. His cheeks were already rosy from the chill in the air. The younger man looked nervous, but he didn't look like he was going to go running off at the drop of a hat.

"If you're lookin' for Frodo, he's around here somewhere. I saw him a little while ago chasing a bug or something."

Dean went back to tugging on the weeds, not wanting to make a big deal out of Sam showing up. His brother was changing exponentially; every day he was making progress it seemed.

Sam walked behind Dean and headed up the path that led through the center of the garden. At one time, Dean could see that it had been covered in mulch, but it had long ago faded and settled into the ground. His brother moved around the plants with familiarity and Dean wondered what memories were going through the younger man's head.

As Sam made his way through the garden, Dean could see longing in his brother's expression. Dean knew it was something Sam had to confront, the loss of their mother, but he still hated to see that look on the kid's face.

On a more positive note, Sam was making strides in the right direction.

* * *

Dean wrapped things up after he cleared the grasses and weeds from around the shrub he'd been working on. The sun was slowly drifting down towards the horizon and he knew it probably wouldn't be a good idea to keep Sam outside after dark. As they walked back up to the house together, Frodo came running up from behind them and took the lead, his tail forming an 'S' behind him.

It wasn't the least bit surprising when Sam silently headed directly upstairs when they got inside, Frodo following close on his heels. After the fact, Dean wondered if Sam had wanted to return to the house sooner, but hadn't said anything. His brother probably hadn't wanted to interrupt him. Instead, he'd waited for Dean. Next time—if there was a next time—Dean would have to make it clear to Sam that he could just tell Dean when he'd had enough.

Dean didn't bother to follow him upstairs. Sam had managed to come such a long way in only a matter of a few days; he was entitled to some 'me' time.

The shrill sound of Dean's cell phone caused him to jump, throwing the hunter out of his thoughts. He quickly pulled the device out of his pocket and looked at the caller I.D.

An iciness spread through him when he saw who it was. He answered it.

"So you decided to save me the trouble of huntin' your ass down."

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	15. Chapter 15

**~~~ CHAPTER FIFTEEN ~~~**

"Dean Winchester... How long's it been? A year? Two?"

"This isn't a social call, Glenn. I need you to tell me about Detroit."

Dean walked into the foyer and glanced up the stairs as he balanced pulling off his overshirt with trying to hold the phone to his ear. He wanted to make sure Sam wasn't hovering just out of eyesight—his brother really didn't need to hear this conversation—but the landing was empty. Sam was probably already absorbed in one of his books or folding another one of his flowers.

"Detroit? You mentioned that in your message. What in the blazes are you talking about?" The man sounded thoroughly confused. "I haven't been there since, oh…what the hell was it? God, Dean, I think it was five or six years ago." At Dean's silence, Glenn asked, "Is _that_ what you wanna know about?"

Dean decided to go along with the flow of conversation, see what he could get out of the man before he went off on him. "That's exactly what I wanna know about."

"Well, alright, let me see… Andy called up, said there was some demon activity up at the old train station. We went up there, checked the place out. We found a handful of demons and we cleaned them out…the ones that didn't go all smoky and take off on us, that is."

Was Glenn conveniently leaving out the part about finding Sam? Since the man didn't seem to be volunteering anything more, Dean asked him directly. "There's rumor about a kid, probably about sixteen, that was found in the basement. What do you remember about that?"

"Shit, you're right. I almost forgot about that. Tall, skinny fella, he was. It was too late for him, I'm afraid. Another casualty of war."

Glenn sounded more detached than sympathetic and Dean bit his tongue; he tried to sound like he didn't want to reach through the phone and throttle the other man. "What exactly do you mean by that? He was alive, wasn't he?"

"Well, yeah, but you don't know what they were doin' to him." And then the man fell silent. "Oh, crap. You're calling because of the yellow-eyed demon, aren't you? I meant to tell you and your dad about that, but I fell into another hunt right after we were out of there. And then—I don't know—time got away from me, I guess."

_Did he really not know? But he had to…_

"Why don't you just tell me what they were doing there. It had to be something big if Yellow Eyes decided to make a cameo."

"Sure. Let me think now... Been a while, you know? My memory's not as sharp as it used to be. – Andy was ahead of us, got down there before Davie and I did. He told me afterwards about what he'd heard."

"And what was that?" Dean leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He mentally braced himself for whatever Glenn was going to tell him.

"Yellow Eyes had been talkin' to the kid. From what I can remember, the boy was meant to lead an army of demons. The demon had said something about him being born for it, that he had a role and had to play his part or some shit like that.

"Now Dean, I would've never believed it, not in a million years. I mean, a kid barely out of puberty leading demons? Sounds crazy, doesn't it? But I don't know now."

"Why's that?"

"It's what Yellow Eyes was doing to him. When we finally decided to make our move, we walked in on him…" The man trailed off. Dean heard the man light up a cigarette and take a drag. Clearly, Glenn had been disturbed by what he'd witnessed.

"Goddammit, Glenn. What? What was it doing to him?" Dean didn't care if the man was going to start getting curious about his interest in the kid. Dean _had _to know._ Dammit._ This is what he'd been waiting for.

"Well, they had him strapped down to a table and they were—_shit, Dean_—they were feeding him demon blood…direct from Yellow Eyes himself. You could tell the kid had fought against them at some point; there were blood stains all around his mouth and down his neck, but I think by the time we got there, he'd given in."

_Holy fucking hell._ Dean pressed a closed fist to his mouth trying to ward off the bile he felt rising in his throat. _They'd fed Sam demon blood? What would that do to a person?_

Glenn kept talking as Dean slumped against the wall; he was speaking Dean's thoughts. "I don't know what that does to a person—never seen anything like it—but I have a good guess."

Dean forced himself to swallow. "And what's that?"

"It changes you. Just as we moved in on the demons, the kid opened his eyes and he looked right at me. His eyes were black as pitch, Dean, just like one of them damn things. They changed him, made him one of their own; he was a demon…or worse. Some kind of hybrid or something.

"Before we were able to do anything, Yellow Eyes leaned over and spoke into the kid's ear—I don't know what it said—but when it stood back up, it smoked out, along with most of the others. I think we managed on exorcising four of the bastards by the time all was said and done."

"And what'd you do with the kid?" Dean asked.

"Well, he didn't react to the exorcisms. I voted to just kill him outright, put him out of his misery before whatever they'd done to him sank its hooks in—it was the humane thing to do—but Andy kept insisting that we had to interrogate him. We had a new species of demon on our hands, one that was created to lead the 'war' that Yellow Eyes was talking about.

"So Davie ran out to the truck to get some tranqs. We knocked him out and brought him to an abandoned factory on the edge of town. It was as good a place as any for what Andy had in mind."

"Glenn, what did you guys do to him?"

Dean finally sagged all the way down to the floor and sat; his legs just didn't want to hold him up anymore. He knew what hunters were capable of when it came to 'interrogating' and he wasn't sure which was worse: suffering at the hands of demons, or at the hands of hunters who thought you were a demon. Some hunters, including his father, could get pretty creative when they needed to. Even Dean was guilty of it from time to time. Basically, what it came down to was torture.

"Well, we ran him through all the tests. You know, salt, holy water, iron… He passed on everything. Andy decided to step it up a little when we weren't getting anywhere. We had to find out what he was, what his weaknesses were, while we could. – Shit, can you imagine a whole army of these things? Demon strong and impervious to anything we can throw at them… How would we stop them? – Anyway, we worked him over for a week and got nothing, not a peep out of the kid. He just wouldn't talk. It was like he wasn't there anymore.

"Now that I think back on it, we probably should have called your dad. He would've figured something out. He was good like that."

_Yeah, and Sam would be dead right now, too._

"Maybe," Dean replied woodenly. "So what'd you do in the end?"

"Another hunter from out east showed up, claimed he'd been on the yellow-eyed demon's trail for a while. He told us he'd heard of this kind of thing happening before and that he knew how to deal with it.

"I don't recall his name. But by then, we'd already accepted that the whole thing was a little above our pay grade. He insisted on taking the kid, so we let him. And that's that last I ever saw or heard of either of them."

So that was how Samuel had gotten Sam back. He played up to this 'new breed' of demon and managed to sucker three hunters into giving him Sam back without them learning who Sam was. _Glenn never knew. _The only thing Glenn was guilty of was being a forgetful ass.

"So, what's your interest in all of this, Dean? Why'd you sound like you were on a war path when you left that message?"

Shit, after all that, Dean sure as hell wasn't going to tell the man Sam was alive and kicking…or who he was. That would be like calling every hunter down on his brother. He'd give the guy a little, enough to throw him off the trail.

"That other hunter was my grandfather."

"Really?" Glenn gave a low whistle. "Did he ever tell you what happened?"

"No, I never talked to him; we weren't close. He's dead; died not too long ago. I've just been goin' through his things and found some notes. And sorry about the attitude. Just when I saw mention of a yellow-eyed demon…and after my dad... It's been a rough few months, you know."

"I understand. No harm, no foul."

"Thanks, Glenn."

"You betcha. Anything else you need to know? Not much else ever came of the Detroit thing. And Andy and Davie aren't around anymore to tell you their stories. I salt-and-burned Andy myself after a vamp got 'im. Good hunter he was, even if he seemed to be on his own boat once in a while."

"Yeah, I'm sure he was." Meanwhile, Dean was happy the guy was dust. He'd been the one who'd tortured Sam.

But now Dean had a better picture of what had happened to Sam. He didn't know everything—not by a long shot—but it was a lot more than he'd had before. Sam had stopped talking, closed himself off, after whatever that yellow-eyed son of a bitch had done to him. Dean wasn't sure if he would have fared much better if he'd been through the same.

He needed a drink.

* * *

Dean awoke to the feeling that someone was watching him. He let out a groan as he rolled onto his back. At the rate his head was pounding, he hoped whoever it was had a gun so they could put him out of his misery. When he cracked his eyes open, he squinted against the morning light blasting down on him through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room.

"Sam?"

He didn't see anyone from where he lay sprawled out on the couch. One leg was hanging limply off the side, the other was kicked up, foot resting on the armrest. An empty bottle of whiskey was tucked up under his arm.

"Shit," he grumbled out with a slight slur. He'd drunk himself to sleep. It was the next morning. _Wonderful. Sam must think I'm an awesome big brother._

Dean forced himself upright, feet dropping to the floor. He rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head into his hands as the room spun around him. He stayed in that position until he felt something cold touch his bare arm.

When he looked up, Sam was standing there with a bottle of water. The kid looked a little less than happy.

"Thanks," Dean said as he accepted the offering. He opened the bottle and drank until it was emptied.

Silence filled the room between them until Frodo came in with a quiet _meow_. Sam walked over to the door and let the cat out when it starting pawing at it. Dean watched the animal slither through the door before his brother closed it again.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to, uh… It's just a bad habit. Been tryin' to kick it. I guess I'm not doin' so hot." Dean screwed the cap back on the water bottle and set it down on the coffee table beside the empty liquor bottle. "You want breakfast?" he asked while he rubbed at his temples trying to will the headache away. He'd have to find some aspirin. A shower wouldn't hurt either.

Sam shook his head 'no' as he continued to stand by the door, hands dipped deep into the front pockets of his jeans.

"Okay." The hunter looked down at the floor and brushed his fingers through his hair trying to smooth his bed head down.

As he stared at nothing, his conversation with Glenn from last night came surging back like a damn tidal wave. Dean looked back up at Sam. Flashes of demon blood smeared all over his little brother's face came to mind…and obsidian eyes. He closed his eyes against the picture, but it was still there.

_Fuck._

When he lifted his lids again, Sam was just 'Sam' again.

"I need a shower." Dean pushed up to his feet, swaying ever so slightly, and made straight for the stairs.

When he got upstairs, he barely made it to the toilet before he threw up.

* * *

Dean stood in the shower and let the hot water wash over him as he leaned up against the smooth tiled wall and thought…about Sam…about what his little brother had had to endure six years ago…and about the underlying reality that was swimming just below the surface.

If Dean believed Glenn, he knew he had to take what the demons had done to Sam into very real consideration. Sam, at least at one time, had had some part of them in him. People's eyes didn't just go demon black all on their own. Dean knew if he had been on that job and had seen the things Glenn had, he probably would have reacted the same way as those other hunters had. It was pretty damn scary to even think about it.

How changed _was_ his brother? Clearly something was still going on if he continued to have telekinetic powers. There was no telling whether or not the yellow-eyed demon had been making social calls to the Campbell household since then. When Dean had asked Sam about Yellow Eyes, the kid had freaked out, but he'd gotten enough out of Sam to know that he hadn't seen the demon recently. That was something at least.

Well, screw it. Dean was going to go with his gut on this one. Sam might have some residual side-effects from whatever had happened, but he was good; there was nothing evil about his brother. Dean wouldn't even consider it, not again. Instead, he would concentrate on getting 'Sam' back and then he would work on taking down the demon once and for all…even if it was the last job he did.

Dean reached over and grabbed the bar of soap from the shelf and began to wash.

* * *

Dean was pulling on his overshirt as he came out of the bedroom. He was feeling a little better compared to earlier, not quite fully up to par yet, but it wasn't anything a cup of coffee wouldn't be able to help.

As he walked past the door to his mother's room, he glanced in and saw Sam sitting on the bed. He stopped and leaned up against the doorframe causing Sam to look up from the photo album that he had spread out in front of him. When he saw Dean standing there, he closed the book. Dean couldn't tell by looking at him if the younger man was still upset with him or not; his expression was void of any tell-tale emotion.

"Hey, I'm gonna make a pot of coffee. You interested in any?" Sam's eyes fell to the floor for a brief moment before he looked back up, but he didn't answer. Dean figured he had to set something straight. He let out a deep breath before speaking. "Sam, one thing you're gonna have to learn about me is I'm not perfect. I screw up; I make mistakes. I've got some of my own problems, too, but I'm dealing with them the best I know how. So I'm not gonna apologize any more than I already have about this morning."

Dean watched Sam when he was done; he hoped had hadn't come off too hard, but he couldn't hide the real him. Dean was Dean and Sam was going to have to realize that at some point. His brother was chewing on his lower lip as he mulled over what he'd just laid out there. Finally, Sam nodded.

"Good. Now that we've got that settled, you wanna get some coffee?"

Sam slid off the bed and carefully put the book back on the shelf. He turned back to Dean and gestured with a hand for him to lead the way.

* * *

It took a small amount of coercion from Dean's end, but the brothers were out in the garden again later that afternoon. Sam still seemed a little hesitant—he stayed on the garden path and didn't wander far—but he was doing okay, at least from what Dean could tell. He was no worse than the day before.

They were out there for about forty-five minutes before Dean's cell phone rang. The hunter stood up and pulled off his gloves before taking his phone out of his pocket to answer the call. It was Bobby. They hadn't heard from the man in a few days.

"Hey, Bobby. How's vacation?" Dean looked over and saw Sam watching him.

"It's been hell. We got an early snowfall," he replied less than enthusiastically. "Since I'm stuck inside for the time being, I thought I'd check in on you boys, see how things are goin'."

"We're doing good. – Aren't we Sam?" he called out to his brother. Sam perked up at being included in the conversation and nodded in response. – "Sam and I, we've been hanging out. You know, brotherly bonding and all." Dean glanced down at Frodo; the cat was chewing on a weed near Sam's feet. "We got an addition to the household."

"Should I ask?"

"I don't know. It all depends on whether or not you like cats."

"You got a cat? How in the world did that happen?"

"He showed up a couple days ago, made himself at home; Sam wanted to keep him. I, uh, had a hard time turnin' him down."

"Really? That's interesting. Sam's never had a pet before. – So, is he makin' progress then?"

Dean turned his back to Sam. He really didn't like talking about his brother like he wasn't standing there. "Things are goin' okay. He's improving. Still not talkin' though."

Bobby didn't answer Dean right away; he was quiet for a span of a few heartbeats. "Are you two outside?" The older man sounded bewildered.

"Um, yeah. We're out in the garden."

"Son of a… How?"

"Like I told you, he likes me more than you." Dean chuckled into the phone causing Sam to look up from where he was now kneeling on the ground next to the cat, scratching along its back. As Dean watched them, the animal sat back on its haunches, its ears twitching while its tail flicked back and forth just above the ground. The thing was looking slightly agitated, but Dean couldn't tell for sure. As far as he was concerned, cats had more mood swings than the women he'd been with.

"How long's that been goin' on?"

Dean went to answer, but suddenly Frodo let out a vicious hiss and he looked back down at the cat. The animal was now standing, whole body tensed and fluffed up like some sort of poster cat for Halloween, and it was still looking off into the trees at Sam's back. The younger man reached a hand out to the cat, but as he did, it took a swipe at him and ran off towards the side of the house.

"Shit, Bobby. I gotta go. I'll call you back." Dean snapped his phone shut and pocketed it as he swiftly moved to his brother's side. He took Sam's hand and eyed three long lines of crimson. "Sammy, dammit, are you alright? What the hell was that all about?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders and pulled his hand away from Dean. He looked off into the trees, appearing more than a little perplexed himself.

The hunter eyed the tree line as well. The shadows were growing long as the sun made its downward descent in the sky and he couldn't make out much. But something didn't feel quite right. He kept his feelings to himself not wanting to spook Sam. "C'mon. I think we're done out here for the day. Let's go get you patched up."

Dean kept close to Sam as they crossed the yard back up to the house. As he locked and dead bolted the door behind him, Dean made sure the salt line was still intact.

"Does this place have internet?" he asked once he made sure the door was secure. He'd been on Samuel's computer on a couple of occasions, but had never bothered to check. He'd been too busy going through the man's files.

Sam was at the kitchen sink rinsing out Frodo's latest love bite. If the damn cat kept it up, Dean was going to evict it…or exorcise it. The younger man tore off a paper towel from the roll on the counter and dried his hands before he responded with a nod.

"Good, then you know what? We're gonna watch a movie. Why don't you go on upstairs and get your laptop fired up. I'll get some popcorn started." Dean stepped around Sam and started going through the food cabinets looking for the packets of microwaveable popcorn he'd seen at some point. "I know I saw some in here somewhere."

Dean knew if something was going on, the safest place in the house was the attic. He wasn't panicking by any means—hell, it might have just been a skunk or a opossum outside—but Dean didn't want to take any chances.

Sam hesitated at Dean's request. The older man hadn't really thought about whether or not his brother would have a problem with using his computer to tap into a movie online.

"Sorry, man. Only if you're okay with it. If not, we can go downstairs. We can use the computer down there. Or we can do something else entirely. The choice is yours."

Sam shook his head 'no', and then he moved off towards the stairs, but he stopped before he left the room and looked back at the door to the backyard. Dean followed his brother's line of sight out to the yard. And there was Frodo scampering across the lawn coming towards the house.

Dean moved and got to the door before Sam could. He unlatched it and let the animal inside. The cat darted past both him and Sam and bolted up the stairs. The hunter could hear its nails scrambling for a hold on the wooden treads as it went.

"While you're at it, calm Freddy Krueger down. I don't want my ass shredded when I get up there." Sam frowned at the reference. Dean should have known better; the kid probably had no idea who that was. "Shit, yeah. He's just some dude with long… Never mind. I'll be up as soon as I find the popcorn."

Dean turned around and started searching for the popcorn again. Suddenly, Sam was there behind him reaching a long arm up over his shoulder. He pulled the top cabinet open (one Dean had just been in) and grabbed a packet of popcorn out that Dean hadn't seen. He tossed it onto the counter before heading upstairs.

"Smartass," Dean mumbled to Sam's back as he watched his brother go up the stairs.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	16. Chapter 16

**~~~ CHAPTER SIXTEEN ~~~**

Nothing ever came of that afternoon, or in the days following. Dean had come to the conclusion that Frodo was a few Bradys short of a bunch; the cat had been spazzing out over nothing. But even as much as Dean would love to blame the animal for being less than bright, it had still picked up on something; the hunter in him couldn't just ignore that. Since then—without telling Sam—he had double-checked the salt lines all throughout the house and added a few extra protective wardings and sigils here and there. He'd even gone out and refreshed the ring of salt around the garden.

He had also planted a few weapons in strategic spots around the house: the closet in the foyer, in the back of one of the cupboards in the kitchen, behind the cushions of the one chair he sat in more often than Sam. It was better to be safe than sorry.

No one in the hunter community knew Dean was up here besides Ellen, Jo, and Ash; therefore nothing supernatural should have gotten a fix on him just in case anyone blabbed. (The Winchesters had a less than amorous relationship with both worlds.) But instinct was instinct. Dean was alive today because he trusted himself. It was one of John's first lessons: trust your gut.

They had been back out to the garden several times over the last week—Dean eventually deemed it safe enough—and they hadn't had any problems. But the hunter found himself observing the cat more often than not, watching to see if anything seemed to be bothering it. The animal was, for all intents and purposes, acting normal…no more Jekyll and Hyde.

But that didn't mean it was calm, cool, and collected. The cat was still a psycho.

On more than one occasion, the animal had come flying out of nowhere like a bat out of Hell, darting across the room and leaping over the furniture. Less than five minutes ago, Dean had gotten the full force of the cat in the nuts and nearly beheaded the feline with a throw pillow.

Meanwhile, Sam sat on the couch trying very unsuccessfully to hide the fact that he found it hilarious that the animal couldn't leave Dean alone.

"The little bastard ain't gonna find it funny when he goes for a swim. Does he know how close we are to the river?" Dean grumbled as he rubbed at his sore groin, grateful that the animal had been kind enough to keep the claws away.

And what in the world did Sam think was so funny? _Damn cats._

* * *

The following Wednesday morning, a loud crash and clatter from the first floor had Dean instantly up on his feet and running down the stairs—but not before retrieving his Colt from the nightstand. He crossed the foyer with the gun drawn, but then lowered it when he saw a partially sliced green apple on the island in the kitchen—it was still slowly rocking back and forth on its uncut side. He didn't flick the safety back on yet.

"Sam?" he called out as he scanned the foyer, hallways, living room, and kitchen for signs of anything amiss.

There was no answer as he moved through the foyer heading towards the kitchen. As he neared the room, he could hear heavy—and pained?—breathing coming from the other side of the island. Dean rounded the counter and found Sam on his knees, the heels of his palms pressed against his temples. There was a paring knife on the floor beside him as well as the remnants of what was once a plate.

"Sam! Shit." Now that he was sure that they weren't in any danger, Dean flicked the safety on his gun and set the weapon down on the counter as he dropped down to his knees in front of Sam; he didn't know what was going on.

What Dean did notice was blood running down the younger man's left arm from some unseen cut. _Crap._

"Sammy, hey. What's going on?"

The kid was all but whimpering. The only thing Dean could think of doing was taking him into his arms until it passed, and that's exactly what he did.

"Just breathe, Sam," he soothed as he rubbed a gentle hand over Sam's shoulder blades. "Whatever this is, you can get through it." Was this one of those migraines Bobby had mentioned? It was the only thing Dean could think of; he hoped that's all it was.

Dean tried to keep his own breathing steady as he waited the attack out. He had no idea how long it would last. The clock ticked on; seconds became minutes. Roughly ten minutes passed before Sam began to stir. His body was trembling and his eyes were glassy when he finally looked up, but the worst of it appeared to be over.

He reached up to brush Sam's hair out of his face and caught his eye. "Think you can get up? We'll get you over to a chair."

Sam nodded.

Dean wrapped an arm around his brother's waist. "Up we go then." And together they pushed up from the floor. Once he had Sam safely situated in a chair at the table, the older man went back into the kitchen to get him some water; he picked the knife up from the floor—he'd clean up the broken plate later—and tossed it into the sink and then grabbed a fresh towel from the drawer. He wet the dark terrycloth with warm water before coming back over.

"Drink this," he said as he handed a glass of cold water to Sam. "While you're doing that, let me see what you did to yourself." Dean gestured to the younger man's hand with his chin. Blood was welling up from between Sam's closed fingers. From the looks of things, his brother had gotten himself good.

When Sam didn't offer out his hand, Dean's brow knitted together. "Sam?"

The younger man only shook his head 'no' as he set the empty glass down on the table and pulled his hand closer to his chest.

"Dude, you're bleeding all over. It's obviously not gonna stop on its own."

Sam shook his head 'no' again. This time it was accompanied by fear in the younger man's eyes. _What is Sam afraid of?_

Sam went to get up from the table, but Dean stood up as well and grabbed his arm, stopping him. "No, Sam. I'm not just gonna let you walk off. What the hell's going on?"

Unyielding green eyes bore into Sam's anxious hazels, searching for an answer. The younger man looked away trying to hide his expression from Dean. When Dean didn't move to let go, Sam's shoulders sagged in defeat, but he still continued to resist his brother's attempt to help him.

"Sam, _tell_ me," Dean all but pleaded with his brother. He glanced down at Sam's injured hand. Blood was now dripping onto the floor. "Sammy…"

Before Dean could stop him, Sam wrenched his arm free and fled from the room. Seconds later, Dean flinched when heard the attic door slam shut.

_Meow._

Dean looked down when he heard the soft mewl. Frodo butted his head up against his leg and began to rub against him, weaving in between his feet. The hunter let out a heavy sigh. "He's gonna make me work for this, isn't he?"

Dean turned to follow Sam upstairs, but he made a quick side trip to the master bathroom to grab the first aid kit on the way up.

* * *

Medical supplies in hand, Dean strode with purpose down the hallway, making a direct line for the attic door; he was surprised to find it unlocked when he reached down and turned the knob. Dean made sure to close it behind him as he marched up the stairs not giving Sam the option to turn him away. He found his brother sitting on the bed.

Sam gave Dean an irritated glare when he saw the first aid kit.

"I'm not gonna fight, but that," Dean pointed at Sam's still closed and bloodied hand, "needs lookin' at. And I'm not takin' 'no' for an answer." The older man walked across the room and grabbed the desk chair. He dragged it over to the bed and sat down in front of Sam.

Sam glanced down at his injured hand; his fingers curled and uncurled. Dean could see the slight wince and knew he'd made the right decision in coming up.

"You gonna let me look at it?" It was a question, but it was directed in such a way that his brother knew that no answer except for a 'yes' would be accepted.

Sam looked up at Dean, stubborn indecision plain on his face.

Dean set the kit down on the bed and held his hand out. He hoped the other man wasn't going to argue with him this time.

Sam chewed on the corner of his lip for a moment, hand still held protectively in his lap, but one look at Dean's unrelenting eyes told him he wasn't going to win this battle. He brought his hand up and held it out, palm-side up, for Dean to look at.

Dean took a minute to inspect the cut. The bleeding had slowed down considerably, but without cleaning it, he couldn't make out how deep it was. He moved Sam's hand to his knee, saying, "Don't move," as he opened the supply box, pulled out a packet of antiseptic wipes, and tore it open. "Now, let's see what you've got goin' on," he said as he picked up Sam's hand again and deftly began to clean the wound.

Sam's fingers flexed at the cool contact, but otherwise he remained still, eyes glued to Dean's gentle ministrations.

Dean glanced up at Sam as he worked. If his brother didn't unwind some, he was going to have a coronary.

"Relax, Sammy. It's just a small cut. Nothing to worry about."

Dean's movements were swift and precise. In less than five minutes, he had the wound cleaned out and bandaged like a pro. Thankfully, the injury wasn't bad enough to require stitches—close, but not quite.

He gave Sam his hand back when he was done. "It's all yours," he said as he stood and started picking up the mess from the bed. "Next time—and hopefully there's not a next time—don't run off. Just let me take care of you, alright? It's no big deal."

Sam flexed his fingers in on the white gauze which was now wrapped securely around his palm. He nodded, but he didn't look up at his brother.

* * *

The day after Sam's episode—Dean had no idea what else to call it, so he called it an 'episode'—Sam kept himself secluded upstairs in the attic. And the door was now being kept shut, not locked…but still. After days of it being left open, it made Dean feel like they were moving apart again and that just...sucked out loud, especially after they'd come so far.

_Okay, so Sam needs some quiet time, _Dean told himself; he could deal with that. Maybe the migraine had been too much for his brother and he needed rest. That still didn't explain why the kid had freaked out over him trying to tend to his bleeding hand. Sam hadn't had a problem letting him check out the cat scratches the other day. But, now that he thought about it, those had pretty much stopped bleeding by the time Dean had gotten a chance to look at them. Had his brother been worried about needing stitches, that Dean would make him leave the house to go to the hospital? (Sam didn't know that Dean was more than qualified to handle that, too, if need be.) It made sense…enough anyway.

Dean spent a good portion of the following day in the garage. Alone. He picked through every box of Samuel's that Bobby had packed up and put out there looking for anything that might have to do with Sam, his mother, hunting—another journal if he was lucky…but the words 'Winchester' and 'luck' rarely came together in the same sentence. Once again, that proved to be true when he found nothing, mostly just clothes and linens.

The last box he looked through was smaller than the rest. It held a few odds and ends: some black and white photos of Samuel and Deanna (one showed a baby in Deanna's arms; it must have been his mom), some old letters from people Dean had never heard of before (maybe distant family; he'd seen the last name Campbell on a return address or two), a money clip, some loose change, pens...

His eyebrows lifted when he came across a yellowed newspaper clipping tucked in between the tattered pages of an old paperback. It was a write-up on the fire in Lawrence. Dean took a moment to read it over even though he'd seen it before. (There was a copy of it in his father's journal.) An electrical short was blamed for the blaze. _Typical_, he thought as he tucked the article back into the book and returned it to the box.

Dean sighed, feeling both frustrated and somewhat defeated, as he re-packed the boxes. It looked like Samuel had kept anything 'business-related' downstairs in the study or locked up in the panic room. These boxes could have belonged to any common suburbanite.

He stood there staring at the useless pile of boxes, gaze slightly unfocused. His thoughts turned toward his brother, to his conversations with both Ash and Glenn. There was still a big piece of the puzzle missing and it bugged the hell out of Dean that he didn't know what it was. Something out there was the key to getting Sam to open those last few doors and Dean wanted, more than anything, to find out what it was.

Dean chewed on his lip as he realized that the only one besides Sam who could answer his remaining questions was Yellow Eyes. He would give Sam a little longer—maybe until the end of winter—but if things didn't change by then, Dean would have to take drastic measures. Something told him the demon wouldn't be very cooperative, but if that's all he had to work with...

* * *

By Friday, two days later, Sam still hadn't come out of hiding and Dean was growing irritated with his lack of ability to pull his brother out of the funk he'd fallen into. But he refused to push the younger man.

To occupy the long afternoon (and to give himself some time to clear his head), Dean decided to give the Impala some much-needed attention. The temperatures were peaking at an uncommon high for mid-October and he had barely touched the car since the trip in from Nebraska. He wanted to check her over and make sure everything was in proper order—her fluids, her battery, the air pressure in her tires—and then he would give her a thorough cleaning, inside and out. Baby deserved a little TLC. Then Dean would have to face the fact that he was going to have to get her moved into the garage; technically, snow could hit any day. But before then, he was going to take her out for one last _good_ run.

After washing the car down, Dean tossed the dirt-stained sponge back into the plastic bucket at his feet with a soft _splash_ and then picked up the hose. He smiled as the water washed away the suds, revealing a bright and shiny car underneath. When he noticed a spot that he missed on the fender, he picked up the sponge to wipe it down and then sprayed it off again.

"That's better," he exclaimed in satisfaction. If he had time later this afternoon, he'd give the car a good coat of wax.

Dean walked over to the side of the garage to turn off the water running to the hose and then grabbed a towel from where he'd tossed a couple over one of the finely-manicured bushes in front of the house.

He was just getting to the roof of the car when an unfamiliar voice caught him by surprise.

"One of my little birdies informed me you were in town. I see they were right."

Dean stilled instantly. The prideful undertone he heard in the words sent a shiver down his spine. _Fuckin' demons and their arrogance_. Slowly, he turned to face his unwanted visitor.

"How's that little brother of yours doing?" it continued. "Are you two getting caught up on all that lost time? What's it been, twenty-two years?" Yellow eyes shifted into place and flashed under the afternoon sun as the demon approached Dean.

"Fuck," the hunter muttered under his breath, but he pasted a fake smile on his face to hide his sudden dread. He turned and started toweling the car off again, moving towards the back end of the vehicle. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about." _Yeah, like that was gonna fly. _He wasn't ready for this confrontation—had wanted it, but not so soon. If Dean could keep the creature talking—everyone knew how much demons loved to monologue—he might just be able to pop the trunk open, get his hands on the Colt and-

"Oh, now, you should know better than to lie to me, Dean. – And stay away that that trunk. I know the kinds of toys you keep in there." Its eyes narrowed knowingly at the hunter.

_Okay, maybe not then._

Tossing the wet towel to the ground, Dean turned to face the creature. The demon was looking up at the house, at Sam who was observing the scene in the driveway from behind the curtains of the attic window. (The kid had been there all afternoon watching Dean as he cleaned the Impala. It was almost like Sam had known something was going to happen.)

Dean looked up as well and made eye contact with the younger man. He shook his head 'no', hoping his brother would get the idea. There was a good chance Sam knew who the 'man' standing in front of Dean was—the yellow eyes might have given that away—but as long as his brother stayed inside, he'd be safe.

The demon began to speak again and Dean pulled his gaze away from his brother, hoping that the kid would listen to him…no matter what happened.

"How is he, Dean? I imagine my boy's not quite ripe for the picking yet, but I'm sure he's getting there."

"He's not yours," Dean growled, hands tightening into fists at his sides.

"Nonsense. That boy up there," the demon glanced up at the window again and then back to Dean, "he was destined to be mine long before he was born. Let's see if he'll put on a show. You think he'll do that? Maybe if I give him some incentive?" The creature smiled at his own words.

"You leave him alone," Dean said through clenched teeth. "He's not _yours_ to do anything with."

The demon turned its head back towards the hunter from where it had been looking up at Sam again. "Oh, is that so? Well, let me bring you up to speed. It's too late. My blood already flows through his veins."

"Yeah, so I've heard." Dean's features were tight with anger as he spoke. "But you know what? Mine does, too. And mine was there first." The words came out on a low growl.

"Dean, Dean, Dean… Don't you know? That doesn't matter. He was given to me…by your darling mother." At the shocked look on the hunter's face, the demon continued. "It was part of the deal…your father's life for little ol' Sammy."

"No…" That wasn't right. Samuel had given Sam to the demon, not his mother; Dean had been sure of it.

"Oh, yes, Dean. I told her I'd be back for a little something and she agreed. It's not my fault she didn't ask what it was that I'd be coming for. But I didn't come here to quibble over the details. What's done is done. – Now, shall we get started?"

Dean tensed, knowing all too well that whatever the demon was about to do was going to hurt. He was helpless out here in the driveway to fight back. The hunter knew he could try to exorcise the thing, but he'd tried it before on one of his earlier run-ins with this demon; it didn't end too well. He could do nothing as the creature lifted a hand and threw him up against the side of the Impala. Dean could feel the beads of moisture he hadn't gotten to toweling off yet seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt as the frame of the car dug painfully into his spine; the toes of his work boots just barely scraped the ground.

"That's about right. Just let me…" The creature made a small gesture causing just that much more pressure to bear down on the man.

The hunter grit his teeth, trying to keep from hollering out under the crushing hold of the demonic force. Eventually, it became too much and he broke, crying out in pain, his shoulders shaking under the intensity of it.

"Atta boy. That should get him stirred up. But I think we need just a wee bit more." The demon flicked his hand again.

And then, with what felt like the last of his breath, Dean screamed. He didn't know how much more he could take. He didn't know what the demon was doing, but it felt as if his insides were on fire. Dean felt a warm trickle fall from his lips. He was bleeding.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

When Dean saw Sam hesitantly stepping out the front door, he wanted to shout—_No, Sam! Go back inside!—_but he couldn't. His breathing was beginning to be nothing more than a ragged wheeze as the pressure gripped him all too tightly.

"Well, well… Would you look at that? Sammy-boy's all grown up. Howdy, Sam!" The demon grinned too widely as he looked at the younger man. "You gonna show Daddy what you're made of?"

Dean heard more screams, didn't know where they'd come from—surely they couldn't be coming from himself—but something in the back of his fading consciousness told him they were erupting from his own mouth.

And then all hell broke loose. Dean could feel the Impala shifting as if under a gale force wind at his back. With a roll of his eyes, Sam came back into view. He could see that the kid was fucking terrified—Dean could tell by his posture—but there was a scarily determined expression on his young features as he held a hand out in front of him, palm-side out, focusing some unseen force out towards Yellow Eyes.

The demon laughed. Its meatsuit's thinning brown hair was blowing wildly in the maelstrom coming from Sam; the material of its clothing flapped in the otherworldly wind. "Now that's what I'm talking about!" It looked back at Dean with a wide grin. "But I think he can do better. Don't you, Dean? Let's turn up the volume."

Sheer agony engulfed Dean then; tears fell from his eyes. His voice was nearly gone, but he managed to somehow find it again. _God, he felt like he was dying. _Maybe this was it, the end of Dean Winchester.

The air was charged…electric. The sensation tickled at the hair on Dean's arms, at the nape of his neck. He heard Sam yell—the first sound he'd ever heard coming from his brother—and then the demon was rocked on its feet by some unseen energy.

Dean's ears were ringing. White noise was careening through his head, bouncing off the inside of his skull. He couldn't see for the tears in his eyes, but through it all, he heard that bitter laugh, heard the demon loud and clear.

"You're coming along nicely there, kiddo. I'm proud of you. Keep up the good work." And then yellow eyes were turned back to Dean; the demon reached out and slapped Dean on the shoulder in false camaraderie. "Keep him safe for me, would you?" With that, It turned and started walking down the driveway as if it was just another afternoon in the park…and it was whistling.

The farther away the demon got, the more Dean could feel his breath returning; his rib cage could finally begin expand and contract once more. The power over him soon dissipated completely and he slumped to the ground in a heap, unable to move for the pain that he was in. Consciousness was a thing that was drifting further out of his reach.

The whirlwind that emanated from Sam faded just as quickly and then the younger man was immediately at Dean's side, his large, but gentle hands sliding over his brother—his arms, his chest, his face—thumbing the blood from his chin and checking to make sure he was still alive and hopefully in one piece. Dean managed to open his eyes with some moderate effort. Sam's own eyes were wet as he stared down at him (Dean noticed, for some odd reason, that they were more green than brown at the moment) and blood was trickling from his nose.

Sam wiped the blood away from under his nose with his shirt sleeve and then rasped out a quiet, "I-I'm s-sorry, D-Dean." His voice was rough from disuse, but the words were there.

Shit, his brother had finally spoken.

The thought had barely surfaced before darkness moved in and gripped Dean tight.

* * *

Dean awoke to the sound of purring. Actually, it was more like the rumble of purring that he could feel against his neck. He reached up slowly and ran his fingers through the soft fur of the cat that was nestled up against him. Aside from the animal, the first thing he noticed was that he was engulfed in the thick cushions of the couch. As his brain began to function again, things started coming back to him. His hand stilled on the cat and he opened his eyes. The sun was still up which meant that he couldn't have been out for long.

As the nerves in his body slowly woke up, he groaned. _I'm getting too old for this shit._ When he started to sit up, Dean heard a soft, "Don't," from across the room. He stilled and looked over, only to see Sam sitting in one of the oversized chairs. (Well, it didn't look so oversized with his sasquatch-sized brother sitting in it.) So Dean hadn't been imagining Sam talking before he'd passed out. _Huh._

"You speak," Dean said as he resigned himself to settling back down on the couch. He waited to see where his brother would go from here. Had the flood gates opened? Or was he going to shut off as suddenly as he had started.

When there was nothing but silence, Dean pressed further. "Sam?" The younger man only shrugged. He looked away from Dean and out the window overlooking the backyard.

"Hey, it's okay. You can talk to me."

Sam looked back at Dean and chewed on his lip.

Dean knew it had to be hard for his brother to break a six year old habit. What had happened out in the driveway earlier had pushed Sam…a lot. The hunter wasn't surprised that the other man was struggling.

Sam leaned over to pick up a bottle of water from the coffee table and took a drink from it and then he started to pick at the condensation-moistened label. After a span of silence, hazel eyes looked back up.

"Are…you…?

"Yeah, Sam. I'm fine. A little sore, but I'll live."

Again Sam nodded.

"Was I out long?"

His brother shook his head 'no'.

"So just enough for you to lug my heavy ass in here, huh?" Dean kidded, trying to alleviate things some.

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched, but the hoped for smile didn't appear.

"How 'bout you? You okay after…, you know?" He waved a hand in the air, making a gesture in the direction of the front of the house. At his movement, Frodo got up and resettled at his feet. Apparently, Dean was keeping the cat from getting its beauty sleep.

Dean saw Sam tense up. He hated to ask, but he wanted to make sure Sam was doing alright. The energy that had surged out of the kid earlier had to have taken a lot out of him.

Sam cast his eyes down to the intricate pattern of the Oriental rug at his feet. The plastic bottle in his hand crinkled slightly as his grip tightened on it.

Finally, the slightest of nods was made; it was all Dean was going to get.

Sam got up from the chair then. He swept his fingers through his hair as he looked anywhere but at the older man. And then he went into the kitchen to discard what was left of his water before heading towards the stairs. Frodo jumped off the couch and sauntered after him.

Dean lay back on the couch, blowing out a frustrated breath, and let his head drop into the pillow behind him. He closed his eyes. Sam was finally talking—sort of—but he would have given it all back not to have had today happen. Sam was acting all wrong, like he wasn't exactly comfortable about what had happened. Then again, Dean couldn't blame him. Sam didn't really know him from a hole in the wall. His brother couldn't know how Dean was going to react in the long run. Dean already knew Sam felt guilty for what had happened. His first words were proof of that.

Yellow Eyes had come looking for something today. Apparently, whatever it was, he hadn't seen it. Sam wasn't 'ready'. That was probably the only thing that had saved both their asses. Dean from certain death; Sam from…what? Leading a demonic army?

How close _was_ Sam to being ready?

Dean's time to fix this was limited. By how much, he didn't know. Sometime, in the very near future, they were going to have to sit down and talk about their situation. (And yes, it was _their_ situation, not just Sam's.) But if Sam needed some of that time to come around, then Dean would give it to him. Things were happening too fast as it was. Sam's doors may have opened, but Dean wasn't sure how fragile the younger man's state of being was. How easily would those doors slam shut again?

Dean lay there going over everything in his mind until the sun dropped to the horizon and he started to doze off. The last thing he thought about was what Yellow Eyes had said. Their mother hadn't dealt away her soul. She had unknowingly promised her second-born child to the demon.

Where did that leave Samuel in all of this? Dean knew the man wasn't innocent. He was involved somehow.

* * *

Dean didn't sleep well that night. Most of it he spent tossing and turning due to the fact that every bone in his body ached. And when he did sleep, it was unsettled. Dean saw yellow eyes; he saw his father dying all over again; he saw Sam leading the legions of Hell through fire and destruction.

Something had roused him from his uneasy slumber and he opened his eyes. The red numbers on the digital clock flared brightly at him. It was almost two in the morning. As his eyes adjusted to the surrounding darkness, Dean caught movement near the doorway and then it was gone.

"Sam?"

There was no response.

Dean reached up to turn on the bedside lamp. When the soft light illuminated the room, he saw something lying at the foot of his bed. It was a book. He reached over and picked it up. When Dean opened the front cover and flipped through the pages, his breath caught.

It was another journal…but it wasn't Samuel's.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	17. Chapter 17

**~~~ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ~~~**

Dean threw the covers off his legs and got out of bed, journal still in hand. He didn't read any of it—not yet—because he wanted to check on Sam.

He walked stiffly down the hallway—his body still ached something fierce from yesterday—making a direct line for the attic door. Dean hesitated when he got to the far end of the hall. Instead of just reaching out to open the door, he brought his hand up and knocked.

"Sam?"

He looked down at the book in his hand then. He might not have read any of it yet, but he knew it was Sam's. He could tell by the writing he'd gotten a glimpse of. Sam had given him this journal to tell him something. Maybe if he sat down and took the time to read it, he would be able to find out how to get through to his brother.

Dean glanced up at the unopened door; his fingers curled tightly around the book in his hand. Was he ready to read Sam's story? _Shit. _It didn't look like he had much of a choice in the matter.

He turned around and headed down to the first floor. Dean had a feeling he wasn't going to be getting any more sleep tonight and he was going to need some coffee if he was going to make it through the long hours.

Coffee pot up and running, Dean took a few minutes to get a fire going in the fireplace. By the time he was done, the coffee was ready. Mug full of the steaming liquid in hand, Dean settled into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and took a deep breath as he looked down at the journal and mentally prepared himself for whatever might be in it.

* * *

The book looked vaguely familiar to Dean; he tried to remember where he might have seen it before. And then the memory of Sam shuffling a book very similar to this one under some papers the other day came to mind. _So this is what he was hiding._

As Dean opened the journal and briefly thumbed through its pages. He noticed right away that it was less a personal journal than a book of Sam's notes from over the years; although the hunter found quite a few dated excerpts written by the younger man interspersed throughout the book. The first of these was dated June 14, 1999; it was only days after Sam had been found.

Dean's jaw tightened when he read the first few entries. Sam could barely write; his letters were sharp and angular; thoughts were broken off before they were completed.

* * *

_~ June 14, 1999 ~_

_I…_

* * *

_~ June 17, 1999 ~_

**_He_ **_'s in my head. Always there. **His** words… What **he** told me…_

_*Dreams …YELLOW EYES*_

_Things are getting worse. Fucking withdrawal. Can't stop shaking. Headaches…_

* * *

_~ June 19, 1999 ~_

_…burning up from the inside_

_Hellfire._

_The hunters said I'm evil. I'm one of **them**. God, no. Please…_

* * *

_~ June 20, 1999 ~_

_Hallucinations... I think I'm going insane._

* * *

_~ July 6, 1999 ~_

_Mom's worried. I can't talk to her. I can't talk to anyone. They'll all die if I do._

_I can't… Won't risk it._

* * *

_~ July 8, 1999 ~_

_I don't…I don't think I'm me anymore… Something inside is…different._

* * *

_~ July 16, 1999 ~_

**_He _**_told me things. I don't want to believe **him**. **He**'s not human. …DEMON!…_

_I'll try to write while I can hold my thoughts together._

_Samuel. Mom. They both made deals with **him**._

**_He _**_said Dad died and Mom made a deal to bring him back. She didn't know… **He** tricked her into giving me to **him**._

_But Samuel… I can't-_

* * *

_~ July 20, 1999 ~_

_The headaches won't stop. I have them daily. Mom won't stop staring at me. She's scared. I can see it in her eyes._

_Bobby was here today. I couldn't look at him. He's been like a father to me, but I just couldn't face him. I know he'll see something's different. I just can't handle that right now._

* * *

_~ July 26, 1999 ~_

_Okay. I'm going to try this again… I still have a hard time just thinking about this stuff. I keep shutting down. I don't know if I'll ever be able to be 'normal' again after… But I'll try._

_The demon—**Azazel **is **his** name—told me what Samuel did._

_My grandfather had assumed Mom made a deal to trade her soul for Dad. The demon used that to **his** advantage. **Azazel** thought it would be to **his** benefit to pull a hunter into the fold, so **he** let my grandfather continue to think that. **He** offered up a 'replacement deal': Mom's soul for me._

_Samuel-_

* * *

_~ July 28, 1999 ~_

_I need to finish this...get this out, even if I do it in small, manageable pieces. I need to._

_Samuel is a selfish bastard. He made the deal without question, even though, for me, it didn't change anything. I was already **his **after what Mom did. I'm still trying not to blame her. It wasn't her fault._

**_Azazel_ **_told me **he** needed to keep me safe. **He** said there was no better place than at the house of a hunter—Samuel was a convenience. Their deal had some fine print. My grandfather was/is to protect me at all costs, or Mom will get hurt. **He **can come for me any time **he** pleases._

_That was also when I learned what hunters are: people who hunt evil things like…_

_God, I'm one of **them **now._

_I didn't believe it at first, but **Azazel** told me I'm **his** and there's no going back. **His **blood runs through me now._

_Now that I look back on it, I have a hard time believing I'm not something…evil. It's in me and there's no undoing what he's done to me._

**_What am I?_**

* * *

_~ August 8, 1999 ~_

_I can't remember all of it. Even if it was yesterday, I wouldn't be able to remember. Most of what I recall is darkness…for days… I don't know how long I was really gone, two weeks maybe._

_I spent the first few nights alone and locked in a small, dark room; concrete floors and walls surrounded me. The only way out was a door, but it was kept locked from the outside. They didn't feed me and barely gave me enough water to get by. At the time, I didn't know who—what—they were._

_When they finally came for me—they all had black eyes, except for **him**—they brought me into this room and strapped me down to a cold metal table._

_I…_

* * *

_~ August 10, 1999 ~_

_I'm hoping if I can get this down on paper. I think it could help with the nightmares, but I don't know._

_There was nothing I could do to stop it from happening. There were too many of them. And they were strong, too strong. I thought they were going to kill me. I've never been so scared in my life. My heart felt like it was going to either stop or come roaring out of my ears._

_The first time they—**he**—made me do it…drink **his** blood, I tried to fight them, but that only made one of them come over and pry my mouth open. When I tried to spit it out, it would force my mouth closed and make me swallow it. I can still taste the foul copper and ash of it…_

_For days it was all I was given. No food. No water._

_And then I started blacking out. **He** said it was just my body adjusting to what was happening to it._

_In between these—I don't know what to call them—feedings, **he **would tell me **his** plans for me, the things I was 'destined' to do. I pretty much told **him** to fuck off, that I'd never do anything like that, but **he** laughed in my face and insisted that I'll eventually be right there on the front lines. **He** told me I'd do it happily once **he**'s done with me._

**_He_ **_changed me…I can feel it. I'm terrified that **he** may be right._

_Recently, I've thought about ending things…but what would **he** do to Mom?_

* * *

_~ August 11, 1999 ~_

_The hunters came. By then, I was too far gone to know how many days had passed or what was happening. Somehow, I can still remember **his** words from before **he **left though:_

_"I'll be checking in on you from time to time, Sammy-boy. Stay out of trouble. And remember, if you share our little secret with anyone, say one itty-bitty word about it, I will know. And I will tear the flesh from their bones as they lay there screaming, and then I'll feed it to 'em until they choke on it. Got me on that? Good."_

_And then I don't remember anything, not until…_

_Fuck, I can't write any more. This is too much._

* * *

_~ August 13, 1999 ~_

_I had a vision of some kind today. I don't know what to think of that. It felt like I was going to die. I've never felt so much pain. My head felt like it was going to explode._

_I don't know what it meant, but I saw someone in it._

_He was fighting something—I don't know what—but it seemed to be getting the upper hand. I didn't see how it ended. The vision came to an end before I could._

* * *

_~ August 17, 1999 ~_

_I've been sneaking down to Samuel's study. He has books on the stuff I need to know. Most are in Latin. Now I can finally be thankful for all the times Bobby sat me down and taught me the nearly dead language. I never knew I'd need it someday, not for something like this anyway._

_I need to try to find a way out of this. And I need to do it without getting anyone hurt. It would be all my fault and I couldn't handle that. I won't be responsible for anyone dying. I won't._

_There's gotta be a way…_

* * *

_~ August 18, 1999 ~_

_Hunters…_

_This is so hard to get out, but I need to finish this._

_If I never see one again, it'll be too soon. It's bad enough that I have to see Samuel every damn day and know he's one of them. To know the things he's capable of…the torture…the pain and suffering._

_When I woke up, it was to find myself cuffed to a chair in an old factory or something. There were three of them huddled together and whispering. They didn't know—or didn't care—how their voices carried through the cavernous room._

_One of them kept saying it was too late for me, that he'd seen my eyes go black. ((Black?)) He told the others that I should be put out of my misery. I think he was more worried that I was going to recoup from what the demons did and turn on them; although he never came right out and said it._

_He had a valid point. **Yellow Eyes** had told me I'm to lead a faction of **his** demon army in a war to end the world as we know it. What exactly does that mean for me? What exactly am I capable of doing?_

_I think I feel sick-_

* * *

_~ August 22, 1999 ~_

_I've been out of it for a couple of days; I just can't let this panic go. It seems as if it's just as much a part of me as whatever **he **did to me. I can't shake it, but I need to finish this…_

_The hunters might not have killed me, but what they did to me…death would have been easier._

_I think I was there for a week, tied to that chair. During that time, they cut me; they poured salt down my already raw throat; they splashed holy water on me, tried to exorcise me (can't do that when you don't have a demon in you in the first place; I know that now), tortured me to try to get me to talk. Shit, they did everything except bleed me out._

_They wanted me to talk, tell them the demon's plans, tell them what I was (am). They said I was some kind of hybrid monster._

_No matter what they did, no matter how many knives they carved into me with, I couldn't—wouldn't—talk. I couldn't risk **him **finding out._

_All that went through my head as they tortured me was 'don'ttell'emdon'ttell'emdon'ttell'em'. I wouldn't—couldn't—let myself break._

_The hunters scared me, but **he** scared (scares) me more._

* * *

_~ August 27, 1999 ~_

_Most of the effects of what **he** did to me are starting to wear off. The headaches aren't as frequent and the nightmares have lessened. I've only had the one vision. I hope that was a one-time thing._

* * *

_~ August 31, 1999 ~_

_I'm going to wrap this up here and now. I don't want to have to think about it again for a while. I want to be done with it…_

_So I think the hunters were close to giving up. I wouldn't talk and they weren't getting what they wanted because of it._

_My clothes were beyond soiled; blood was coming out of my mouth and my nose, from cuts on my arms, chest, and legs; my whole body was stiff and sore from being bound in one position for so long. And to this day, I think I still have a rib or two healing from the whole experience. At least they were kind enough to give me water and some food. (They only did that because they thought I was too weak to answer their questions.)_

_I heard them talking one night as I sat there, half out of it and still cuffed to the chair. I had a dark hood pulled down over my head, tied tightly at the neck. (It was something they did when they wanted to pretend I wasn't there.) Two of them now wanted to kill me; the third wasn't so sure yet. He still thought he could get me to talk. I prayed for a quick death._

_But something unexpected happened. I heard a door bang open and then a new voice sounded across the room._

_I don't remember anything after that. They did something to me. The next thing I knew, I was home in my bed._

_I could be wrong, but I think Samuel found me somehow. I think **Azazel** told him where to find me._

* * *

_~ September 28, 1999 ~_

_I've spent time researching demons and won't stop until I find something. Samuel has an extensive library on the subject—I think from the time he was researching Mom's deal—and I've made use of it as much as I can. Bobby brings books to me when I ask him to. He hasn't asked what I want them for. I'm sure he knows he wouldn't get an answer._

_I still have nightmares. I still see **him**, but I'm coping with it. I haven't had any visions in the last few weeks; that's a good sign. The headaches are still there though. I'm just learning to live with them._

* * *

_~ October 14, 1999 ~_

_Mom keeps begging me to talk. I just can't bring myself to do it. I won't risk it._

* * *

_~ November 5, 1999 ~_

_Bobby's been up here trying to get me to talk again. He wants to know what happened. He was up here a couple of days ago. I had what I'm going to just call a panic attack. I think that got him scared. I feel horrible putting him through this._

_I don't think he'll be asking any more questions. Something tells me Mom won't push anymore either._

* * *

_~ December 22, 1999 ~_

_Nothing new. There's so little out there on **him**. You would almost think **he **doesn't exist._

* * *

Dean rubbed at his eyes and sipped at his now lukewarm coffee. That was the last personal entry for many pages. The research notes in this book were less general than the ones in the other notebooks upstairs that he'd snuck a peek through. Sam was very thorough in what he did, but he hadn't found much on the yellow-eyed demon either.

Most of the year 2000 passed without anything that really caught his eye...that was until he found a passage mentioning yet another vision.

* * *

_~ August 24, 2000 ~_

_I had another vision last night. It really knocked me on my ass._

_I saw some kind of creature (a banshee maybe?). Once again I saw the same man from my last vision. He looks an awful lot like my dad, but older, like what he'd look like today if he hadn't died… But it couldn't be._

_There was another hunter with him, but I couldn't make out what he looked like because he was curled in on himself and crying out. He was holding his hands over bleeding ears as the creature wailed on incessantly._

_I jumped when the report of a gun tore through the air and then the thing was dead._

_The whole scene freaked me out. Why am I having these visions? Is this hunter going to come for me? Are these visions omens?_

* * *

Dean sat back in the chair. If his memory served him correctly, he and his dad had been hunting a banshee late that summer in Mississippi. Dean had gotten close to the thing, but a twig had snapped under his foot alerting her to his presence; she hadn't exactly been happy to see him.

* * *

Dean glanced over his shoulder and looked up the stairs. He knew his brother was probably anxious and wide awake. The kid would know that he was reading this stuff. Had Sam put it all together, figured out that it was his own family that he'd seen? From what Dean had read so far, he didn't think so.

But he had so much to think over already. Sam's entries had answered all of his questions and then some…how Samuel was involved with Yellow Eyes—Azazel; Dean now had a name—what the demons had done to Sam, and what the hunters had done as well. It wasn't in full-blown, microscopic detail, but it was enough. With how skittish Sam still was after six years, Dean was surprised his brother had been able to write _any_ of it down.

Sam had also answered the question of why he was no longer talking. It appeared that he hadn't spoken a word since the threat from Yellow Eyes. Where Dean was jaded to threats like that—as a hunter, he got them all the time; he usually killed the S.O.B. before the threat was even finished—Sam wasn't. It had spooked Sam enough that he had closed up like Fort Knox. And it had been so long now, that it was nearly impossible for the younger man to open back up.

What got to Dean the most, though, was that Sam thought he was some kind of monster, something evil—Dean now understood why Sam had run after he had sliced his hand open the other day after the migraine. Or was that a…? _Fuck. Sam had had another vision right in front of him and Dean hadn't even known. _(Dean squirreled that newest revelation away for the immediate moment because his thoughts were already on severe overload.) If he knew Sam like he thought he did, his brother was afraid that he was going to 'infect' Dean, taint him somehow. Dean would have to change that, show his brother that he was just 'Sam' and nothing more.

And Samuel… Goddamn Samuel. Dean wanted to waste the guy. Maybe he _would_ go dig the man up. Sam's mention of the man had fully confirmed his deal with the demon. Now Dean knew the details of that second deal, and he could never forgive the man for giving an innocent, yet-to-be-born baby to a fucking demon; it didn't make a difference that that wasn't what had really happened. Even if what his grandfather had thought was true, there was _always_ another way. Samuel just hadn't bothered to look further.

Dean was more than halfway through the book, but there were still four more years to go. He flipped to the next page. There were sure to be more personal entries from Sam. And there were, but not for a long time. It looked like the younger man had gotten most of what he wanted to, out. Most of it looked like a regular hunter's journal.

* * *

_~ May 9, 2001 ~_

_Vision – This time it was too dark to see anything. There was a loud howling, the harsh shouts of men, a few shots, and the rustle of leaves. I saw the silhouette of a man…probably the same one._

_I'm just going to keep making note of these and maybe one of these days I'll see a connection._

* * *

Dean matched that one up to a werewolf he and his father had hunted down in Tennessee. It had been a grueling night. They'd both gotten pretty banged up on that one.

* * *

_~ October 16, 2001 ~_

_Vision – Demons this time. It hit a little too close to home. I spent the last two days in bed. Mom's worried again because I haven't eaten._

* * *

_~ June 4, 2002 ~_

_Vision – A fucking leprechaun? Those things exist? It certainly wasn't a Lucky the Leprechaun, not with those razor-sharp teeth and needle-like fingernails…and it had the ability to create fireballs, too._

_The man and his partner sent it back to wherever it had come from, but not without a few bites, scratches, and burns._

_It's like watching a real-life horror movie. I've come to the conclusion that I'm seeing something that's really happening. This sucks._

* * *

Entry after entry of visions were recorded. And each and every one of them Dean could match up to a hunt in his memory. But Sam wasn't seeing all of their jobs—at least it didn't look like it—just the ones where either his own or his father's life had been at risk.

It made him wonder if Sam had seen the night their father…

_God, I hope not._

But then he remembered Bobby mentioning his brother having a massive migraine about a month ago. It looked like Sam had had the unfortunate privilege of seeing that.

Dean stopped in his tracks and his eyes widened as he read a particular passage dated January 22, 2004.

* * *

_~ January 22, 2004 ~_

_I had another vision. This time I saw the other hunter. He's younger than the man I usually see. What really stands out about him are his eyes…green like the fresh spring grass. I don't know why, but they're seared into my memory._

_The older man was being held down by the creature they were hunting, but he was deadly calm, almost as if he knew the other hunter would be there for him. I saw light glint off a silver ring on his ring finger…a wedding band, I think._

_He yelled out a command: "Dean, get your ass in gear and take this son of a bitch down!"_

_"I got it, Dad!"_

_The younger hunter's eyes were full of a ferocity and a fearless determination I've never seen before as he squeezed the trigger of the flare gun, sending the beast up in flames._

_These hunters are father and son…_

* * *

That job had been a real bitch. That damn wendigo had taken a good swipe at his father. It had taken almost forty stitches to sew the man's abdomen back up. It had been a long and bloody night. Yeah, another job-gone-wrong for the Winchesters.

But what stood out to Dean was—_shit_ —Sam had gotten a good look at him. That meant Sam _knew_ who Dean was… He recalled the night he'd first gone upstairs to see his brother, the night the younger man had awoken to find him sitting there at his bedside. Jesus, had Sam known then? He must have. Dean didn't know what to think of that.

He let the thought go for now because there was something about the entry that perplexed him: the date…January 22, 2004. He knew for a fact that that hunt had happened on January 24. They had planned on going out to the local steak house to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday late that night after the job. Obviously, it hadn't happened.

Was Sam a fucking precog? _Did he see things that were going to happen?_ He'd have to compare the dates with his father's journal to be sure, but Dean's gut told him he was onto something.

And if he was right…

"Jesus Christ," Dean whispered as he stared down at the page, a slightly unsteady hand absently coming up and rubbing at his jawline. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he thought about it.

If Sam's visions were following a pattern—and they sure as hell seemed like they were—that meant… Sam _knew. _The probability that Sam had seen Yellow Eyes coming to the house before it had even happened was pretty high. No wonder the kid had apologized. He had known and hadn't warned Dean.

Dean was too shocked to be angry. But, god, if Sam had seen that—if Sam had just _said_ something—Dean could have been prepared. They might have had a chance to end it all right then and there. But that chance was gone now…over and done with. It may as well have never happened.

Dean looked back down at the book. He was nearing the end of it. There were another half dozen or so pages left, filled out front and back. _Might as well finish it up._

He spent a little while longer scanning Sam's research notes and then he found another entry…

* * *

_~ August 2, 2004 ~_

_**Azazel** found them, the hunters._

_They didn't fare so well up against him. Dean tried to exorcise it, but instead of hurting the demon, he got thrown into the side of a parked truck like a rag doll before he'd even reached the third word of the ritual. He fell to the ground knocked out cold. I could only watch as a blood trickled down his temple. (I've already learned that I can't interact with these visions. It's useless; I've tried everything.)_

_The older hunter pulled out an antique revolver and aimed it at **Azazel**._

_I've never had so much hope as I watched the scene play out in front of me. This was my fate. If the hunter was able to kill **him**, I'd be free…or at least as much as I could be after what **he**'s done to me._

_But instead, **he **laughed at the threat. "Oh, John, if you only knew… It's too bad you won't be around later on to see what I have planned for your son."_

_A shot rang out in the quiet of the night, but I could only yell as I watched **Azazel** smoke out of the body of the middle-aged man he'd been using this time._

_I still don't know what to think of this vision. The hunter's names were/are John and Dean. Those are… Jesus, I can't even go there. They're gone; dead twenty-one years._

_What am I seeing? Are these visions some fucked up game **he**'s playing with me? Is **he** trying to break me somehow?_

_I just don't know…_

* * *

So, yeah, Sam had made the connection—he knew who 'John and Dean' were—but he hadn't wholly believed in what he'd been witness to in his visions. That might explain why he hadn't said anything about Azazel's little family get together yesterday. Sam was confused; he wasn't even sure if what he was seeing was real or not.

Dean was pretty damn certain Sam knew what was real now. And anything the kid might still be in doubt about in regards to past jobs, Dean had the scars to prove how very genuine they were.

But as he sat there trying to fit the pieces together, something occurred to him. _What if Sam doesn't know he's a precog?_ Sam's latest vision might have spooked him some, but since Dean had been standing right there with him, he probably thought it was all bullshit…that was until he had seen Yellow Eyes out there in the driveway two days later.

_Christ Almighty, the kid must've freaked out seeing that._ Dean was surprised that Sam had managed to overcome his fears and come outside at all, but he knew why his brother had come out. Dean had been in danger and Sam wasn't going to sit by and just let it happen, not when he had felt it was his fault that it was happening in the first place.

Dean looked down and turned the last two pages in the book. There were more research notes, but no more personal entries. He knew their mother had died shortly thereafter. Maybe Sam had just called it quits. Samuel had basically named the kid a murderer and locked him up in that attic after she had died.

That was all Sam had needed, someone in his family—even if it was Samuel—calling him evil. Dean didn't give a shit what anyone said about his brother…

_Sam is not evil_ . _He's not a monster._

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days...


	18. Chapter 18

**~~~ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ~~~**

Dean stared into the fire in front of him, its flames dancing and weaving about the blackened logs. For a brief moment, his father's funeral pyre came to mind. That had been out near Bobby's hometown of Sioux Falls. _Small world,_ he thought as he closed Sam's journal and rubbed a hand over his face, palm chafing over his five o'clock shadow. He had been right earlier; sleep wasn't going to happen.

His first thought after reading Sam's journal was to go upstairs, take his brother by the shoulders, look him in the eye, and tell him that that this could all be fixed, that what that yellow-eyed son of a bitch had done to him could be undone. But the problem was, Dean didn't know exactly how to _fix _this. He had never heard of a demon doing something like that before—force-feeding a human demon blood—not in all the years he'd been hunting with his father. So how could he make Sam believe it if he himself didn't have a clue?

Speaking of Sam... The kid had been doing a damn good job of keeping his thoughts about himself hidden from Dean…from everyone it seemed. On the outside—well, aside from the not talking and his skittish nature—Sam appeared fine…mostly, not like he thought he had the devil in him.

But there _was_ a glimmer of hope. Over the last couple of weeks, Dean had gotten a small glimpse of the carefree little boy that Sam had once been; the walls he had built up were cracking. 'Sam' was there, right fucking there. _If Dean could just nudge his brother in the right direction…_ But he knew the younger man's beliefs about himself had had years to take root and grow into something cancerous. It was going to take time—and a large amount of effort—to change that and remind Sam of who he really was: a Winchester. Winchesters didn't give up. They fought; they dug their heels in and told those supernatural pieces of crap to stick it where the sun don't shine.

Dean was startled from his thoughts when he suddenly had a lapful of Frodo. He hadn't seen the cat on his trip down from his room, or during the time that he'd gotten the coffee going and had worked on the fire. He'd just assumed the animal had been upstairs with Sam.

_Sam…_

Dean looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see his brother standing somewhere nearby. But the room was as empty as it had been over the last few hours.

The sun hadn't peeked over the horizon yet and the shadows around him were still stretched out, long and dark. Dean glanced up at the clock on the wall; it was after five already, closer to six actually. He set Sam's journal down on the small end table next to his chair and gave Frodo a tentative scratch on the head. The cat playfully rolled onto its back and—much to Dean's surprise—began to lick his hand with that rough, sandpaper-like tongue.

"Oh, you wanna be friends now?" he teased the cat. "How 'bout I go check on Sammy, get dressed, and then I'll get you something to eat, huh?"

The cat seemed to understand that Dean was talking to it and stopped licking the hunter, tongue still outstretched against the side of the his hand. Green eyes peered up at him. Dean chuckled and moved his hand away, giving Frodo a light, shooing tap. The animal complied and jumped out of his lap and down onto the floor. A soft _meow_ was given as Dean got up and went into the kitchen to rinse his empty coffee cup out.

"I'll be back in a few; I won't forget you," he promised the stray before jogging up the stairs to change out of his sweatpants and t-shirt.

A few short minutes later, Dean stepped out of his room wearing a gray Henley and a well-worn pair of jeans with a hole in the right knee (they were his favorite pair) and headed down the hallway to the attic door. Even if Sam wasn't in the mood to talk, he just wanted to make sure his brother was doing okay.

The room above was dark when Dean opened the door; not even the small lamp beside the bed was on. He quietly climbed the stairs and stopped when he got to the top. Dean listened to the silence surrounding him and picked up on the steady breaths coming from the bed. Sam was asleep.

As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Dean was able to make out the younger man's sleeping form mostly hidden beneath the covers. Sam was on his stomach, long limbs starfished across the bed like a little kid. Dean couldn't help but grin at the sight. But then his smile fell away when he thought about what the demon had done to Sam all those years ago…and what he still had in mind for the youngest Winchester.

Dean suddenly needed to get some air.

* * *

It would only be a quick run into town, no more than a half hour tops—the coffee shop up the street from Marla's was his destination—and he felt the house was more than secure with the wardings he'd put up to leave Sam home alone for that short amount of time. Dean was also fairly certain the demon wouldn't be back for a while. It had told Dean to 'keep him safe'. However long that might be, he couldn't be sure, but less than twenty-four hours seemed a little soon.

Before heading out, Dean fed the cat as he'd promised and then found a pad of paper in one of the kitchen drawers to scratch out a quick note to Sam letting him know he'd be back shortly, that he was just heading into town for some coffee. He left it on the table propped up against the ceramic vase which was full of purple, orange, and white flowers that Sam had so carefully selected and cut from the garden, knowing his brother would see it if/when he decided to come downstairs. It was a rule he and his father had lived by: you always told the other where you were going and how long you expected to be gone. Someone's life could depend on it. He also left Sam's journal on the table beside it just in case he wanted it back.

If Sam happened to get up before Dean got back, Dean knew the younger man would be okay for a little while. There'd been a few times when his brother had gotten up before him—Dean just wasn't an early bird no matter how hard he tried, certainly not after almost two decades of staying up until the crack of dawn hunting things that went bump in the night. If Sam did come downstairs, the kid was more than capable of making something to eat; there was plenty of cereal and milk.

With one last glance up the stairs and a quick check of the salt line, Dean opened the front door and headed outside for the first time since Yellow Eyes—_Azazel_—had made his surprise visit. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scent of autumn in the air as a cool breeze ruffled through his short hair. The ride into town was less than his soul craved, but it was better than nothing.

He turned the key in the ignition; the low rumble and soothing purr of the Impala was music to his ears and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Dean reached over and pushed in the cassette tape—Nazareth came on playing 'Hair of the Dog'—and he cranked up the volume before turning on the headlights and shifting the car into drive.

The trip into Milbridge center wasn't long, maybe ten minutes. It was still early enough that the roads weren't too busy even with the increase of tourists that had to be lurking around now that the fall foliage season was at its peak.

After a short drive up Main Street, Dean spied the coffee shop he was looking for and pulled into an empty space in front of it. When he opened the door to the store, a bell rang lightly over his head; he rolled his eyes at it. _Seriously?_ _What is it with this town and their bells?_

Once he was standing in line, Dean took his time perusing the hand-written menu up on the wall—this was one of those fancy 'fru fru' coffee joints, the kind he generally tended to avoid like the plague. But they did have a nice selection of danishes in the glass case. Maybe he'd pick up a few things for Sam while he was here. The kid had a sweet tooth—Dean had figured out that much in the short time he'd known him—and thought it might cheer his brother up some.

Not long after, Dean walked out the front door—bell ringing over his head again—a black coffee and a fancy whipped-cream-laced-with-extra-sugar-drowned-in-chocolate-syrup-loaded-with-sprinkles latte that he thought Sam might like in a cardboard tray. In his other hand was a bag of assorted baked goods: a couple of muffins, a few doughnuts, and some other pastry-type things he didn't know the names to.

He took a quick spin through town—at this time of morning, he noticed that the river had more traffic on it than the roads did; Marla's diner was the only place aside from the coffee shop that seemed to have any sign of life—before heading back up the long and winding road to the former Campbell house (now the Winchester house).

Dean pulled up in front of the garage and turned off the engine. He grinned as he imagined the look on Sam's face when he showed him what he'd gotten. Honestly, with Sam's appetite, Dean wouldn't be surprised if his brother ate everything that he'd purchased…well, less the doughnut Dean had eaten on the drive back.

When he keyed open the front door and walked inside, Dean was greeted with a _meow_ as he turned on the lights_._ Frodo was sitting in the middle of the foyer, looking a little anxious…and maybe a little guilty if Dean was reading the cat right.

And then he immediately saw why when he took in the state of the room.

The vase that had once been standing on the table lay shattered on the floor, its pieces—as well as the bright bouquet of flowers—were strewn across the hardwood in a puddle of water; the notepad on which he'd written his note to Sam was upside down right in the middle of it soaking up the watery mess like a sponge. Sam's journal (which, thankfully, had missed taking a bath) lay not too far away from the chaos.

"Dude, seriously?" Dean chided as he walked over and set the cups and bag of food down on the table, shooing the cat away with his foot even as it tried to rub its head up against his leg. "See if I feed you again," he muttered as he bent down to pick up the notepad and journal—shaking out the notepad—before setting them on the table. Glass crunched under his booted feet as he went to get some paper towels and a broom from the closet. "Damn nuisance. You're lucky Sam likes you so much or your hairy ass would be makin' friends with Charlie Tuna out there in the river."

* * *

Broken vase cleaned up and the kitchen back in order, Dean grabbed the bag of pastries, Sam's latte—he'd finished off his coffee before pulling into the driveway—and Sam's journal off the table and headed upstairs. When the cat went to follow, he stopped walking and looked down at it.

"No," he said firmly to the animal. "Stay."

Frodo ignored him and ran up the stairs anyway. Apparently, cats didn't like to listen to commands.

Dean let out a huff of irritation.

"You're not helpin' my opinion about cats."

* * *

When he reached the attic door, Dean knocked on it to announce himself and then opened it and started up the stairs. As he reached the top step, he came to a sudden halt when he saw his brother.

Sam was sitting under the window tucked in on himself, knees pulled up against his chest and his forearms crossed over the tops of them. His whole body was trembling as the younger man sobbed quietly, face buried in the tangle of his arms.

"Sam?" Dean put the Styrofoam cup and bag down on the desk, along with the journal. "Hey, what's going on?" he asked, kneeling down on the floor beside his brother. The kid didn't look like he was having a panic attack, but Dean couldn't fathom why he was so distraught.

Sam lifted his head and looked up at Dean, eyes red-rimmed and wet, lashes thick with tears; his cheeks were flushed and his breathing was uneven. He sucked in a ragged breath and shuddered as he wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand.

"You…you came back."

_What the hell?_

"Of course I came back. What'd you think? Didn't you see the note I…?" He trailed off thinking of the mess that he'd walked in on downstairs. Dean could only picture what Sam had assumed when he'd come downstairs and had seen that. From the younger man's point of view it could have looked like—_fuck—_like Dean had had second thoughts, tossed a few things around, and then stormed off…possibly for good.

"Goddamned son of a freakin'…," he growled out. "I didn't do that, Sam…" Just then, Frodo darted out from under Sam's bed, nearly taking Dean out as he raced across the room chasing god only knew what (probably an imaginary mouse). "_That_, that's what did what you saw. I left a note down there telling you I'd be back in a few. I just went out to pick up some stuff." Dean glanced up at his purchases on the desk, then back to Sam.

Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair in mild exasperation. Sam had dropped his eyes down again, possibly out of embarrassment for mistaking the whole situation.

"Look at me." His brother raised his eyes until they met with Dean's, hazel to green. Dean could see another tremor pass through Sam as he struggled to hold eye contact. He reached over and gripped the younger man's forearm, trying to reassure him. "I will _always_ come back, Sammy. Nothing's changed between you and me.

"I know what you're thinkin'. Part of you is scared because you think I'm gonna high-tail it outta here now that I know. Hell, you're probably freaking out some because I'm a hunter," Sam flinched ever so slightly at the word, but other than that he didn't move, "but I'm your _brother_ before anything else. I will _never_ hurt you like that." Dean watched Sam as the younger man's eyes blinked slowly. It was the only acknowledgement he got that his brother was hearing him. "And I want you to know, if any other hunter out there tries to do something to you, or even so much as _looks_ at you funny, so help me, he won't know what hit him. You got me on all that?"

There was a nod. It was also accompanied by a very quiet, "Yeah."

"Good. So why don't you get up off the floor and come sit down. I didn't order some five-dollar girlie drink just so it could go to waste."

Dean gave a lopsided smile as he stood up and held a hand out to his brother. Sam only hesitated for a second before taking the offer of assistance and allowing himself to be hauled up from the floor. The older man handed him the latte once he was steady on his feet.

"It's probably not as hot as it should be, but I don't think you can nuke it with all that whipped cream and shit on it."

Sam looked down at the beverage in his hand and peeled the lid off; his eyes widened when he saw what was in the cup and he looked back up at the older man. Dean was more than pleased when he saw the beginnings of dimples cutting into his little brother's cheeks.

_Yahtzee._

* * *

Sam settled himself on the loveseat next to Dean and sipped at his drink. Dean watched as his brother's eyes closed in what looked like pure ecstasy; he couldn't help but grin at Sam's obvious pleasure. He'd hit that particular nail on the head.

Dean leaned forward then and picked up the bag of pastries from the coffee table, tossing it to the couch next to Sam. "There's another few cups of sugar in there. Help yourself."

The younger man managed to get the bag open with his free hand and he wet his lips with his tongue as he stared at the assortment of baked goods.

"The doughnuts are decent," Dean commented as he watched Sam reach into the bag and pull out a jelly twist. It took seconds for Sam to polish that off before he took out another, this time a croissant.

When Sam offered the bag back, Dean took it and blindly reached into it. He pulled out a blueberry muffin and then put the bag back on the table. They ate their impromptu breakfast in a comfortable silence, each making little noises of contentment as they did.

After a short while, Dean began to fidget. Sam noticed right away and lifted an eyebrow at him in question.

He found that as each minute passed, it was getting harder to sit quietly. Dean was trying—he really was—but what he'd read overnight had him chomping at the bit. He couldn't _not_ say anything. Dean swallowed the last of his muffin, licked the remaining sugary glaze off his fingers, and then shifted to face his brother.

"Sam…"

The younger man stilled, eyes catching Dean's briefly before turning away. His teeth dug sharply into his bottom lip as he stared off at something across the room. It was as if he knew exactly what Dean was going to say.

"Shit. Look at me…please. I can't just not talk about this." Sam slowly looked over at him. For as tall as he was, his brother could certainly look small when he wanted to. "You gave me that journal because you wanted me to see. And I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam only narrowed his eyes in confusion at Dean's sudden and unexpected apology.

His brother didn't have to actually voice the question. Dean knew what he was asking. "We weren't there, me and Dad. We should have been there to stop it."

"Not…your fault."

The younger man put his nearly empty cup down on the coffee table before standing up and walking over to the window which overlooked the river below. Dean got up, first instinct telling him to follow his brother—to be there for him—but he stopped halfway across the room and gave Sam his space. The last thing he wanted to do was make his brother feel cornered.

Dean didn't want to pick a fight, not now that Sam was actively participating in a conversation…sort of. But…

"No, Sam. If we'd have taken out…," he hesitated not knowing how Sam would react to the word, "the, uh, demon when we had the chance—and we had more than one shot at it—it never would've happened, none of it. He wouldn't have been able to do what he did."

Sam shivered and wrapped his long arms around himself. Dean watched him carefully to make sure he wasn't going to drop into another panic attack.

The younger man shook his head. "No." Sam's voice cracked from lack of use as he answered, speaking towards the window. "The first time he….was…the fire. He…told me."

Dean felt sick; his stomach cinched tightly into a hard knot. _That bastard got to Sam when he was just a baby._ _I fucking knew it_. The hunter's jaw clenched as he tried to hold his rage inside. Dean could feel the blood in his veins begin to boil; his fingers curled into fists at his sides. But he suppressed the emotion—as tough as it was—when his brother turned to face him.

Sam's expression was hard to read as he cleared his throat. "It's…hard…to talk about." He tucked his hands into his pockets and swallowed thickly.

"You don't have to get it all out at once, especially if it might make you go all…you know." Dean could wait. What the demon had done was bad enough. Sam didn't need to suffer any more than he already had.

The younger man shook his head 'no'. "I'm…o-okay."

Even though Dean was chock full of questions, especially after what Sam had just confessed, he held firm. "No, dude, you're not. I admit, I would love to sit down and drill you for information all the way into next week, but not at your expense.

"And I'm not gonna make you talk about _him _or Detroit or anything else." Sam's posture stiffened then, but Dean kept on going. "I'll never bring any of that up unless you do first. And you don't have to worry about Bobby either. I won't spill the beans. It's your story to tell, not mine."

Sam appeared to relax a little at that, the uneasiness bleeding out of his tall frame.

"But I just wanna know one thing…and then we can—I don't know—go on a shopping spree online, get and actual TV in this place, and some movies, or we can go downstairs and make a damn pie. We'll eat it for lunch."

Dean's words broke some of the tension that was still in the air. Sam looked back at him and there was a hint of a smile tilting up at the corners of his mouth.

"Just one thing. I promise. And you don't have to answer it if you don't want to."

Sam nodded, giving Dean the permission he was seeking.

"Well, it isn't so much a question as…" Dean shook his head and he allowed himself to grin. "Dude, you _knew_ it was me when you woke up and caught me watching you that first night." Dean could have asked anything and he was sure Sam would have done his best to answer whatever it was, but he decided to keep it light. There was a time and place for everything.

His brother's eyes dropped to the floor briefly before looking back up at Dean. "I…," Sam whispered, "yeah." A smile flashed fleetingly at Dean in an almost apology. "The…visions..." Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably as guilt suddenly filled his eyes again.

Dean winced at the discomfort he could see on Sam's face—even just the few words he'd spoken in the last couple of minutes had to kill his vocal chords after not having spoken in so long—but what hurt the most was how his brother was blaming himself for everything.

"I'm not mad at you, Sam. I just wish I'd known is all." He knew his words could be interpreted a couple of different ways, but he'd let Sam take them for what they were.

Dean gestured to the stairs with a tilt of his head then. "C'mon. Let's go downstairs and get you some water for that throat. And don't push the talkin' thing. I don't want you hurtin' yourself on my account. Take your time. I want to hear you talkin'—these one-sided conversations are a real bitch—but I don't want you to force yourself. Make sure you're ready because _you're _ready."

Sam nodded.

* * *

"So what do you wanna do, shop or bake?" Dean asked as he went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of water. He slid one across the counter to Sam who took it as he sat down on one of the barstools.

Sam considered the two options and then a gleam caught in his eye as he looked up.

A little more than two hours later, the kitchen was dusted in a fine coating of flour, but it smelled damn good as an apple pie sat baking in the oven (looks-wise, it wasn't going to win any awards, but hey, whatever) _and_ the TV, DVD player, and a stack of movies would arrive before the upcoming weekend.

While they waited for the pie to bake, the brothers sat together on the three-season porch; Frodo lay basking in a square of sunlight that stretched out over the floor. Dean noticed Sam casting sidelong glances at him every now and then as he picked at the label on his latest bottle of water.

"What?" Dean asked, curious, not sure if Sam would answer him. The younger man had been mostly silent since they'd been downstairs.

"I," Sam cleared his throat when his voice cracked, "I'm happy…you're here."

Dean sat back in his seat and considered his brother for a moment. "Yeah? Well, me, too, Sammy."

"Sam."

"Huh?"

"It's Sam."

"Sure thing…" Dean smirked, swallowed down the last of his water, and then added, "_Sammy_."

He didn't duck down quite fast enough to avoid the bottle cap Sam threw at him.

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days... *two more chapters!...happy dance!*


	19. Chapter 19

**~~~ CHAPTER NINETEEN ~~~**

Bobby would be back in two days. That's what he'd said when he called later that afternoon. The man had some business to take care of in Boston and then he'd be hopping the short flight back to Milbridge from there. When asked how things were going, Dean kept mum on the details of what had been happening over the last day and a half. He'd let the man see for himself when he got back.

Sam was a ball of nerves when Dean hung up the phone, so much so that Dean could see a bead of sweat running down the side of his brother's right temple.

"Hey, he understands you're not just gonna come bouncin' right back." Dean reached over and moved his remaining bishop diagonally across the game board in front of him. They were in the middle of a game of chess at the kitchen table and Sam was currently kicking his ass. The younger Winchester had already captured Dean's queen.

Sam stared down at the pieces laid out in front of him; his eyes were unfocused and Dean could see the different muscles in his brother's face twitching as he mulled over the whole idea of seeing Bobby again. It was one thing to open up to someone like Dean who hadn't known Sam 'before', but to open up to someone like Bobby who'd known Sam since practically forever… Dean could see how that could be hard to do.

"He's…like a dad to me," Sam said, voice quiet.

"And Dad would've been happy to know you had someone like that in your life. It's alright, Sam."

Frodo jumped up onto the table then and decided to lie down in the middle of their game. His legs stretched out, toppling over their pawns, knights, kings, and queens, sending them rolling as he stared up at Dean. (Dean caught a rook as it rolled off the edge of the table.) The hunter could almost hear the cat saying, "I dare you to try to make me move." And then the cat let out a wide yawn, baring its fangs for a second before closing its eyes and catnapping.

When Sam didn't reply—and now that their game looked to be over due to the lanky gray feline spread out in the middle of it—the hunter picked up the scattered pieces and placed them back into the box. (They could put the board away later.)

"Well, it looks like we're done here," he said as he stood up. "You should thank the cat. I was about to call checkmate on your ass." Yeah, Dean knew he was full of shit.

His comment pulled his brother back into the moment and had Sam raising his brow. The younger man glanced down at the cat on the table, then back up to Dean as he put together what Dean had just said. And then he just shook his head and grinned. Dean would love to hear Sam tell him how full of shit he really was, but he knew his brother wasn't anywhere near that comfort level yet.

"So anyway, I think I'm gonna go upstairs for a while. I've got a few things I gotta take care of. But you're welcome to come up if you want. The door's always open if you wanna talk or just hang out or whatever."

The younger man nodded. "Thanks, Dean."

Sam reached out and smoothed his fingers along Frodo's flank. The cat immediately rolled onto its back and bared its stomach for a full-on belly rub, causing Sam to smile.

Dean took that as his cue to leave.

* * *

Dean was in his bedroom staring down at the closet floor…or more precisely at his father's duffel bag which was sitting next to his own bags. He'd brought it in right after Azazel had shown his ugly face. He'd originally gone out to get the Colt from the trunk, but ended up bringing that in, too.

His plan before he came upstairs was to give the Colt a good and thorough cleaning. Now that he knew Yellow Eyes was keeping tabs on them, Dean wanted to be ready for anything. But now he couldn't tear his eyes away from that third duffel.

So Dean picked up the case with the Colt in it as well as John's bag and brought everything over to the bed. The gun he put aside on the nightstand—he'd get to that in a few minutes—his father's bag he set down on the bed. He chewed on his lip in momentary indecision before reaching down and slowly unzipping it. Dean hadn't been in the duffel since he'd first packed everything up less than twenty-four hours after spreading his father's ashes. He just never felt like he was ready. And honestly, he still didn't think he was, but it was something that needed to be done.

His father's leather jacket came into view first being that it was the last thing he had folded up and stuffed into the bag. Dean took it out and carefully set it aside before pulling out a few of the man's other belongings...his hunting journal, a sheathed knife, his car keys, and a small wooden box containing some of John's more personal effects were among the few things he took out.

Dean sat down on the bed and picked up his father's journal, opening the cover. In the pocket on the inside of the flap was a picture of himself and his dad from probably about ten years ago. It was the two of them leaning up against the side of the Impala, wide grins on their faces. (Pastor Jim had had his hands full trying to get John Winchester to loosen up before snapping the picture.) He took the photograph out and tossed the journal aside.

As he looked at it, Dean thought he could see a bit of Sam in his dad's smile; the two resembled each other quite a bit now that he thought about it. He tried to imagine what Sam would have been like back then if they had grown up side by side. Would they have gotten along? How different would their father have been if Sam had been around? Would the man still have gotten into hunting? Shit, would Sam have been brought up a hunter like Dean had been? The questions could go on and on and Dean would never know any of the answers.

Dean carefully placed the photo aside and picked up his father's jacket. As far as Dean was concerned, aside from the journal, it was the most important thing in that bag. The strong scents of leather, gunpowder, and alcohol still lingered in its folds. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled.

"Dad." The word came out broken; Dean didn't even realize he'd spoken it as his fingers clenched tightly in the thick material. As he lowered the jacket to his lap, he could feel the burn of tears prick at his eyes. He didn't bother wiping them away as they fell down his cheeks. "I miss you," he said as he sat there, head hanging down and shoulders hunched. What he wouldn't do to have his dad back in his life. John might have been a hard-ass, but the man was still his father, the only family Dean had ever known for the last twenty-two years of his life.

Dean looked up, broken away from his moment of grief, when instinct told him he was no longer alone. He wiped at his eyes and then glanced over to the doorway. Sam was standing there, gaze resting on Dean.

"Hey." Dean cleared his throat and then tried to cover his embarrassment at being caught in a moment of weakness with a smile. "Just, um, had some cleanin' to do. What's up? You alright?"

"Yeah," Sam said as he slowly crossed the room until he reached the bed and sat down not too far from Dean.

Dean watched as his brother looked over their father's belongings.

"I was just going through Dad's stuff. I haven't since…" He trailed off, not trusting himself to be able to hold it together.

"Are…are you okay?" Sam asked hesitantly.

His brother had already been through the whole grieving process and Dean knew he wasn't hiding things very well, not from someone like Sam who paid attention to detail and saw him every day. "I will be."

Sam nodded. He reached out to pick up the photograph of Dean and John, but paused before touching it. He looked up at Dean for permission.

"Go ahead. That's Dad and me. I was about sixteen/seventeen. It was taken by Dad's friend Pastor Jim up in Blue Earth, Minnesota."

The younger man picked up the picture and looked at it for a while and then he asked, "Were you happy?"

The question caught Dean off guard. Here was Sam, who'd basically been held prisoner his entire life, asking Dean if he'd been happy.

"Yeah, mostly. Sometimes things got rough, but we managed. Hunting's not an easy life, especially for a kid."

Sam set the picture down and then picked up John's journal. He thumbed through the pages before setting it down again and then picked up the knife that was beside it. He unsheathed it and studied the markings that were etched into its blade.

The weapon was made of cold iron and the handle was crafted from the bone of a virgin. The sigils that held Sam's attention were old, so old that even John Winchester, with all his resources, hadn't been able to translate them. It was the one knife Dean had used the most over the years. It wouldn't kill a demon, but it would pretty damn near put it out of commission for a while.

John had received the blade in payment for a job they had done down in Louisiana quite a few years back, but ever since they had tracked the Colt down to Daniel Elkins—the old hunter had succumbed to a terrible accident involving vampires—Dean had been the one to utilize the knife while his father had packed the Colt.

"Dad got that for doing a job," Dean told him. "Sometimes exorcisms aren't enough with demons so we have that and the Colt. But the Colt is meant for _him._ We only have a few bullets for it. That knife there, it puts 'em in their place though. Cold iron mixed with those sigils… Demons don't like it much."

Dean saw something in Sam's eyes then and jumped up from his place on the bed. He carefully unclasped his brother's fingers from the handle and took the weapon away, slipping it back into its sheath before tossing it down onto the bed.

"No, Sam. I know what you're thinkin'. Just…no. Okay?" He knew Sam had some major doubts about himself, about what Yellow Eyes had done to him. "I'm not gonna tell you again. You're _not _one of 'em. I've been out there in the field fighting them. I know what they're like."

"But...I…," Sam looked up at Dean with pleading eyes, "Please. I have to know. Just let me."

Dean wet his lips with the tip of his tongue as he considered what Sam was asking. It killed him to even think about that blade cutting into Sam's flesh, but something like that might just show his brother that he wasn't one of the bad guys.

"Please," Sam said again, almost begging.

The hunter studied Sam as he warred with his thoughts. The expression on his brother's face was one of desperation. It was like he _needed_ this confirmation.

_Shit. Shitshitshit._ _Dammit._ Dean felt himself giving in. How could he turn his brother down?

Dean had had to slice his arm open on a few occasions to prove that he wasn't corrupted by some nightmarish piece of filth. He knew what it felt like. Then again, cutting himself with a very sharp blade hurt a lot less than some of the things that had happened to him over the years, but he wasn't going to go into that.

"You're sure you wanna do this?"

Sam's gaze snapped up to his when the younger man heard the possible concession. He glanced down at the discarded knife and back to his brother. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly in anticipation of the truth—and maybe the pain—but he nodded.

A low growl escaped from Dean's throat. "Fine, but I'll do it," he said, grabbing the knife before Sam could pick it up again. "Roll up your sleeve." His voice came out a little rougher than he meant it to, but Sam complied, rolling up the left sleeve of his flannel; he held out his arm, waiting.

Dean tested the business edge of the weapon even though he knew it was as sharp as a razor blade and then he took a hold of Sam's arm and pressed the knife to the soft flesh of his brother's forearm. With a quick glance up at the younger man's wide eyes, Dean looked down and moved the blade swiftly over the skin, slicing into it like butter and causing crimson to well up.

And…

Nothing happened.

"See, you're not a damn demon, Sam. You're not evil."

Tears glistened in Sam's eyes as he watched the blood ooze out from the small nick on his arm—Dean had kept it small enough where it would heal on its own—and Dean wondered what was going through the younger man's head then. Was it enough? The only one who knew the answer to that question was Sam.

Dean cleaned the knife off with a rag and put it away before Sam got any other crazy ideas. When his brother just continued to sit there, Dean looked down at him.

"Sam?" Sam remained quiet, his long bangs falling over his eyes as he stared down at the carpet, avoiding the older man's scrutiny. _Shit. What now? _Dean had hoped that this would be all over now, but it didn't appear to be.

"Sammy? Hey."

Dean reached out and tilted the other man's head up with a crooked finger under his chin.

Sam's lower lip trembled when he finally looked up and spoke. "Then what am I, Dean? I'm not normal. You've seen the things I can do." Tears started to roll down his cheeks as he choked out the words.

Dean felt a knot form in his throat as he tried to figure out how to answer that, and then, "You wanna know what you are?" The corner of his mouth lifted into a partial smile. "You're my pain in the ass little brother, that's what you are. You and me? We're gonna get through this—whatever it is. But the only way we're gonna be able to do that is if you start to trust me. Can you do that?"

There was a long, shuddering intake of breath before Sam nodded on the exhale.

"Good. So no more playing with knives?"

A shake of the head. A small smile of acceptance.

"Okay, then." Dean softly clapped his hands together once, shuffling them together, and then looked back at the mess on the bed. "I gotta get this stuff put away. Give me ten minutes and then we can get moving on dinner or something. We could order Chinese. You like Chinese?"

* * *

Two days later, as promised, Bobby pulled into the driveway at about half past five in the evening. Dean looked up at Sam, who was sitting across from him reading some other Bible-sized book from his collection of geeky literature, when he heard the crunch of gravel under the truck's tires.

The younger man's gaze instantly shifted towards the front door. He sat up from where he was half-lying on the couch and closed his book, eyes wide and anxious.

Dean offered his brother an out. "If you wanna go upstairs, I'll just tell him you weren't up to company yet. I'm sure he'll understand."

"No," Sam replied softly. "I need to get it over with. And I sort of owe it to him."

Sam had been speaking more and more over the last couple of days. Dean told him not to push it, that he should take his time, but it seemed the younger man had decided that if he was going to swim, he was going to do it by jumping right into the deep end of the pool.

"You want me to stick around?"

The key was heard in the lock; Sam's eyes strayed back to the foyer again. The door opened before he could answer.

Bobby dropped two heavy, black suitcases on the floor with a huff and caught sight of the two young men in the living room.

"Boys," he said in greeting as he took them both in, but his eyes lingered on Sam.

Dean remained silent and watched his brother, wondering how this scene was going to play out.

"How're you doin', Sam?" Bobby stepped into the room, but stopped within feet of crossing the threshold.

Dean's brow lifted when Sam made the first move, closing the distance between them in several long strides and wrapping Bobby in a bear-sized hug.

"Bobby. I-" Sam's voice cracked then.

The hunter could see the stunned look on Bobby's face from where he stood and he grinned widely. They made eye contact and Dean saw tears well up in the older man's blue-gray eyes as his grip tightened around Sam.

"It's okay, Sam," Bobby said quietly as he embraced the younger man. "Hell, I never thought I'd see the day, boy," he commented when they finally pulled away from one another. But the man gripped Sam by the shoulders and looked him over as the tears of happiness spilled down his cheeks and into the scruff of his beard.

Sam smiled then. It was a nervous one—Dean could clearly see that—but his brother was holding his own.

"What happened? How long?" Bobby was brimming with questions. He looked between the brothers.

"Why don't you sit down before you have a heart attack," Dean kidded lightly, glad everything seemed to be going well enough. "You want some coffee? We were expecting you, so I got some started a little while ago," he said as he headed into the kitchen without giving the man a chance to answer.

"Yeah, sure," a still shocked Bobby said as he collapsed into one of the upholstered chairs.

"Sam, you wanna give me a hand?" Dean called over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen.

"Um..." Sam hesitated, glancing from Dean to Bobby.

"You go ahead, son. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Sam nodded and followed Dean into the kitchen.

"You hangin' in there?" Dean asked as he leaned back against the counter.

"Yeah, I think so. One step at a time, yeah?"

"Sounds like a good plan to me. You want me to leave you two alone, let you catch up for a while?"

"I…" Sam reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck. He glanced back towards the living room and then to Dean again. "Can you stay?"

Dean watched as Sam's hand subconsciously came down and began to finger their mother's ring through the fabric of his shirt. "Whatever you need," he said as he turned and opened the cabinet behind him. He pulled down three mugs and set them on the counter. "You want some coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks."

The older man poured three coffees and started fixing them up the way he knew everyone liked them: Bobby's with two sugars and a splash of milk; Sam's was more like a cup of sugar and milk with a side of coffee, and his own was black.

When they returned to the living room, Bobby had removed his coat; it was now draped over the back of his chair. He looked less shocked now and a little more relaxed. Dean handed him his coffee and he took it with a 'thank you'.

"So, what's new? How's the family?" Dean inquired casually as he sank down into the plush cushions of the couch next to Sam. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, so as not to get eaten by the large piece of furniture.

"Good. They're good," Bobby said, not really answering Dean's questions. The man was so obviously trying not to stare at Sam, but he was failing miserably.

Bobby looked over at Dean. "Was there any particular reason no one thought to tell me of this latest development?" There was a frown on his face, but it wasn't angry. "I mean," he looked back at Sam, "Sam, you're talkin' again." There was sheer wonder in his tone.

"We had a few things we had to work on," Dean said cryptically as he sipped at his coffee. "But now that's he's talking, I can't get him to shut up." He smirked and knocked knees with his brother who gave him a playful scowl and pushed him back.

Bobby sat back and watched the interaction in total awe.

"There's still a ways to go, but-" Dean started, but was interrupted when Frodo showed up and leapt into Sam's lap, nearly making the younger man spill his coffee. Sam leaned over to set his drink down on the coffee table and then started petting the animal when it curled up into a ball in his lap.

Bobby eyed the stray as Sam ran his fingers through its fur.

"That our new live-in?"

"Watch out for the little heathen," Dean warned in jest. "I swear, the only person he likes is Sam."

Dean reached over cautiously and scratched between the cat's ears. Sam snickered as Frodo reached out and swiped playfully at Dean's sleeve. The animal then wrapped its two arms around the hunter's wrist and began gnawing on him like he was some catnip-filled toy.

"Ow, you…!" Dean left off the expletive as he pulled his arm away and rubbed at the fresh teeth marks on the back of his hand. "See what I mean!"

Sam tried to hold back a snort of laughter, but it slipped when Bobby chuckled.

"Yeah, you just wait until the fanged rat gets a hold of your bare foot when you're still half asleep," Dean scowled. "It feels awesome. I think I'd rather go head-on with another vamp. At least I can do something about it when it pisses me off."

"I didn't know a hunter of your caliber would go runnin' from what, a six or seven pound cat, Dean," Bobby teased. At Dean's foul look, the older man changed the subject, but he was still smiling. "Anything else happen while I was gone?"

"Nope," Dean said probably a little too quickly garnering a narrow-eyed look from Bobby.

Sam stared down at Frodo where his hand stilled, fingers deep in the cat's fur. It was obvious he was thinking about the same thing Dean was. _Azazel._ Neither of them was going near that subject any time soon, not with Bobby anyway.

"Oookay… I can see you two've got your secrets. I can respect that. Sam…" Sam looked up at him then. "As long as you're doin' alright..."

Sam nodded. There was a look of relief on his face. "I'm... Dean's been…he's been...patient."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. It seems you two are good for each other." Bobby turned his gaze back over to Dean then. "How 'bout you?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Me? What about me?"

"You came in here a bit rough around the edges."

The hunter glanced at Sam then back to the older man. He'd screwed up that one night; Sam probably wasn't going to let him forget it either—and really, Dean didn't want to let his brother down like that again. Maybe he'd needed that reality check. But Sam knew; he understood what Dean was going through. "Things are…getting better."

Bobby stared at Dean long enough to make the younger man squirm some and then he nodded before standing up. "Well, if you boys don't mind, I wanna get settled in. It's been a long day."

"We were gonna order pizza later. You interested?" Dean offered.

"As long as there's no anchovies and olives, I'm up for it," Bobby said as he arched his back and grimaced before heading into the foyer to collect his bags and then he disappeared down the hallway to his room.

"I'd say that went well," Dean commented when he and Sam were alone again. "So, what's that bottomless pit you call your stomach want on its pizza?"

Dean got a pillow to the head.

* * *

It was getting late and the brothers were upstairs in the attic relaxing after having had dinner with Bobby. Sam was sitting at his desk, laptop open in front of him, and Dean was stretched out on the bed, shoes kicked off, and long legs crossed at the ankle. He was browsing one of Samuel's books of exorcisms that Sam had had on the shelf. All in all, things felt comfortably 'normal' for the moment.

Bobby had finally stopped staring at Sam a couple of hours ago; Dean almost couldn't blame the man though. Bobby had been a surrogate father to Sam pretty much since the kid had learned how to write and Dean couldn't imagine what he'd gone through 'losing' Sam all those years ago. Dean could definitely see the father/son relationship going on between the two.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

Sam shifted in his chair so he could face Dean. "All you had to do was ask."

_What the hell was Sam talking about?_

Dean looked up from the book, brow pinched in confusion. "Ask about what?"

"My notebooks. You went through them."

_Oh. That…_

Dean cleared his throat. "Um…"

"It's okay. I'm not mad."

"Well, I suppose that's a good thing then."

Sam grinned, but it fell away a moment later.

"What?"

"I, um… Detroit. I think that was my fault."

Dean sat up and tossed the heavy book to the foot of the bed. He gave his brother a hard look. "Sam, don't-"

"No, Dean. Hear me out. I think I might've pissed him...A-Azazel…off.

"I had just graduated, you know, and I was putting out some applications online for…for college—I needed to get away from Samuel. He… I could always tell he didn't like me, even before I knew what he did. I had talked to Mom about it, going away. She knew and she was okay with it. Bobby knew, too.

"Azazel, he—I guess he was watching me somehow—and he wasn't too happy when he found out. That's why he came…why he took me. He kept telling me I was his." Sam's features twisted as he fought with his emotions; he wiped an open hand over his face before looking back at Dean. "Am I Dean? Am I his? Is there really anything we can do about this? Or is this 'destiny' thing really gonna happen? Do I have a choice?"

Surprisingly, Sam's voice remained steady as he voiced his worries. The hunter pushed up from the bed and crossed the room. He reached down and pulled Sam up to his feet; they were just inches from each other.

Dean looked Sam right in the eye then.

"You always have a choice, Sam. The two of us, we're gonna beat him. I don't know when; I don't know how, but we will. You said you trust me. Well, this is me trusting you. We'll get this done and that yellow-eyed son of a bitch is gonna regret the day he ever heard the name 'Winchester'."

They were so far into this chick-flick moment that Dean didn't hesitate when he moved forward the half step remaining between them and pulled his oversized little brother into a firm hug. When Sam's arms came up and wrapped around him, a swell of emotion rose up through Dean. It was a new feeling, but Dean thought he could get used to it.

"Nothing's gonna happen to you again, Sammy," he said into Sam's shoulder. "From now on, you've got your big brother watching your back."

**...tbc...**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please be sure to comment. Let me know what you think (good or bad). I hope to see you again in a couple of days... All we have left is the epilogue. I'm so sad to see this one coming to an end. Thank you so much for sticking around!


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: Soooo... this is the end...or is it?**

* * *

**~~~ EPILOGUE ~~~**

The whole thing was Sam's idea…

Dean remained in Milbridge for the duration of the winter—and god if he never saw snow again, it would be too soon. (Twenty inches in one friggin' storm? C'mon!) By the first of the year, he was practically climbing the walls with cabin fever. Apparently, Sam had taken notice.

* * *

Early on, the younger Winchester had shown interest in finding out more about 'Dean the hunter'. The subject wasn't necessarily an easy one for Sam—he had his good days and his bad—but he kept pushing himself until he was comfortable talking about it (not quite one hundred percent, but close).

He had also gotten Dean to show him his way around weapons. The younger man could now break down a gun, clean it, re-assemble it, load it, and shoot it…quite accurately, too; he certainly gave Dean a run for his money. But where Sam excelled most was with knives. The kid could throw a knife and hit the target dead-center from twenty feet away nearly every time. Even Dean had a hard time doing that. Sam was a natural.

Oh, and sparring? Well, Dean would never admit that his little brother had kicked his ass once…okay, maybe twice. (That third time didn't count. Dean had tripped; he swore Frodo had something to do with it.) The kid was good. What could he say? It must have been because he had a good teacher.

Sam also had a knack for finding jobs on the internet. He had a way of just putting things together. For every little bit that Dean taught Sam, Sam taught him something in return. Anything that looked suspicious, they forwarded to Ellen and Ash. There were always plenty of hunters milling around the Roadhouse looking for an odd job here and there.

The younger man was damn near a prodigy and Dean was amazed at how fast he picked up on things. Dean considered himself one of the best hunters out there, and at the rate Sam was going, he was going to catch up real quick. He already knew more than enough lore to get by on.

Sam started pushing the idea in late January. He said, "Just something small to start with—a ghost maybe; a simple salt-and-burn."

Dean knew why he was doing it. Sam saw right through him. He saw that Dean was itching to get back out on the road. His brother was willing to leave the security blanket that was Milbridge for Dean.

Dean had managed to put him off for a while though. A sudden trip cross-country was a bit much. Instead, they started with working in short runs into town: a coffee run; a trip to Harold's market—quick errands just to get the feel of things. Sam stayed in the car in the beginning, but by the fifth or sixth trip, the younger man started to venture out sticking close to Dean's side.

March came roaring in like a lion as they say and Sam was wearing down Dean's reserves.

"Fine," Dean finally said during the second week of March, "but I'll pick the job."

* * *

Today was March 20th, the first day of spring.

Songbirds were singing high up in the trees and the air was finally warming again after the frigid temps of the passing winter. There were a few fair weather clouds passing by this morning, but other than that, the sky was clear. It was a good day for driving.

Bobby was standing in the doorway to the house talking quietly to Sam. (The man had just gotten back from another trip to Sioux Falls a few days ago.) Frodo was sitting on the porch railing, tail waving contentedly back and forth as he watched his favorite person getting ready to say goodbye. (And yes, the name 'Frodo' had stuck.)

Dean smiled as he inhaled the fresh scent of the pines surrounding the property. He looked over at Sam and Bobby who were now hugging like they would never see each other again. And then Sam scratched Frodo on the head before he bent over and picked up his two duffels full of clothing and research material.

They were heading out today. There was a job in upstate New York. It was a small one, more than likely a discontented spirit, but Sam insisted on getting his feet wet.

"You ready?" Dean asked when Sam tossed his bags into the trunk beside his own.

"Yeah, I think so." Sam glanced up at the azure sky above and the sunlight caught in his eyes, setting the blues, greens, and golds ablaze; Dean still couldn't quite figure out what color his brother's eyes really were.

"You boys stay safe out there," Bobby called out from the front porch. The man had agreed to stick around and watch the house while they hit the road for the next month or so. Dean could still see the disbelief on the older man's face as he watched Sam actually heading out for the first time in basically forever.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Dean assured Bobby as he draped an arm over Sam's shoulders and playfully tugged him close. "Nothing's gonna happen to little ol' Sammy."

"Sam," the younger man mumbled. "Sammy's a chubby twelve-year old," he added.

"Uh-huh, whatever you say, Samm-"

Sam ducked away from the arm Dean had wrapped around him and somehow got it twisted up behind Dean's back. He laughed out loud when Dean squawked in surprise.

"What were you sayin'?" Deep dimples carved into his cheeks as he whispered into his brother's ear. Dean was helpless in the position he had him in.

"Was just sayin'," Dean tried to break free of Sam's hold before he finished his answer, but he wasn't having any luck, "Sam." He finally gave in. Maybe he had taught his brother too well. Their father would have been proud.

"That's what I thought," Sam said with a snicker before releasing his hold and jumping away before Dean could retaliate.

"You kids done playin' or d'you want me to take out the bicycles and the Tonka trucks?" Bobby teased dryly from where he stood.

"We're goin', we're goin'. Sam?" Dean asked as he looked over the roof of the car.

Dean could see his brother take a long, steadying breath—he knew this was a _huge_ step compared to everything else Sam had done over the previous few months—and then Sam nodded as he squared his shoulders before opening the passenger side door.

"Yeah. I'm ready." The younger man glanced up at Bobby then. "We'll call you." And then he folded his 6'4" frame in half and slid into the seat without any further hesitation, closing the door behind him.

Sam was probably as good as he was going to get until the demon was destroyed. He was back to talking full-time; he was interacting with both Bobby and Dean like any other 'normal' person. The nightmares seemed to have subsided for now as well as the visions…or at least he hadn't had any since before Yellow Eyes had shown up. Dean hoped that meant something. But what? He couldn't be sure.

Dean opened his door; it squeaked loudly, welcoming him back like an old friend with open arms. "Take it easy, Bobby," he called out. "We'll check in with you when we get there. And don't worry; I'll keep 'im safe."

"You be sure you do."

Dean gave a mock salute before slipping into the car with a smile.

_There's no place like home, _he thought to himself when the leather creaked under the seat of his pants as he got himself situated behind the wheel. He looked over at Sam in the passenger seat; the kid flashed him a nervous smile.

"You're completely sure about this?"

"Never been more sure about anything. I'm with my big brother and he said he's got my back."

"Damn straight."

Dean started the car up—_and ohhh…that purr_. He grinned widely when Sam jumped at the loud mullet rock pouring out of the speakers.

_Yeah, Little Brother is gonna to have to get used to that._

He was still chuckling when he put his sunglasses on and shifted the car into gear. And then the Impala began to roll down the driveway leaving the only life Sam had ever known behind them. But there were plenty of roads yet to be taken, places to be seen.

Sam and Dean had twenty-two years to catch up on and a whole hell of a lot more to look forward to.

**_The End_**

* * *

**Author's End Note:** I've had several reviewers on both my sites already requesting a sequel for this. I've mentioned the idea to my beta and her reply was, "That would be so wicked awesome!" I think that means she's on board with the idea...maybe? :) We've discussed the idea before, but never set anything in stone. I'm currently working on another fic (which I'm just about done with), and I have another planned for right after which I REALLY need to get out of my system. (Those will both be posted to my other site due to their nature. Yes, I admit, I have an evil side which I don't show over here.) I'll schedule a sequel for "Lost" in for after that. Throw me some ideas, my friends. I'd be happy to hear what you'd like to see!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed "Part 1". Thank you soooo ever much for your patience. I look forward to hearing your final thoughts. I really enjoyed some of our conversations. I'd like to think I made a few new friends along the way.

And again, another HUGE thank you to my beta RiatheMai for this plot bunny. Be sure to check out her stuff when you get a chance.

Hope to see you again!

P.S. - If you're interested, a downloadable version of this fic with pics can be found at archiveofourown dot org / works / 1383469


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